


In Vigils

by Ballades



Series: Questionable Chemistry [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Dark fic, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, PTSD, all the feels, did i say fluff i suck at fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares, mind games, dysfunctional relationships.  The Inquisitor and her Commander are not always perfect people, nor are they perfect together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen and the human mage Inquisitor have such a sweet romance, but a dark undercurrent runs through it. You can't expect things to be fine all the time, no matter how high-functioning you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vigils, n.  
> 1\. One of the Canonical Hours, known as the Night Office; also called Matins or Nocturns, usually observed at midnight or after

Cullen rarely sleeps.

It's not something that's well known, but it's part of the reason why he gets so much work done. Reports are sent to him at all hours; by the next day, they've been read, responded to, and returned. Only his aides know, as do the messengers, but they assume that their commander is just dedicated to the cause, that his discipline and acuity of mind are so great that he doesn't need to sleep.

In reality, Aeveth knows, Cullen is afraid to sleep.

It's the nightmares. Cullen says it's because of the lyrium, but Aeveth suspects there's something deeper, an older trauma that keeps manifesting itself through his dreams. He's only ever mentioned it once to her, during the one withdrawal episode he's allowed her to see. Sometimes she'll wake in the middle of the night to find Cullen sitting by the fire, staring past it. When she awakes later, she'll find him in the same position, minutes and hours lost to dark red embers.

"Cullen," Aeveth will say. "Have you rested at all?"

His answers are always a variant of the same thing: no, but he'll be fine. She'll frown at him concernedly, then bring him some strong tea.

Other times he wakes, gasping, from the dreams. Aeveth herself is a light sleeper, and at first thrash her eyes will spring open. She'll lean over, watch Cullen helplessly in his suffering, knowing that waking him will be worse than letting the nightmare run its course. She'll reach over and hold his hand once he gets his bearings; he'll close his eyes, fall back against the bed, put her hand to his lips. "I'm sorry," he'll say.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," she'll tell him sadly.

*** *** ***

She wants to do something, anything. She wants to fix the problems, subtract them out, solve for him. But Aeveth feels so useless, and when she asks, Cullen never wants to tell her what's haunting him. "I don't want to trouble you," he says, and Aeveth almost capitulates, almost lets him re-shoulder his burden alone.

But not this time. "Cullen, this is serious," she says to him gently but firmly, squeezing his hand. "Please, I want to help you. We're in this together. I wake up to you having nightmares. We talk, and I lose you for minutes at a time. What can I do to help?"

Cullen shakes his head. "I didn't realize it was affecting you so much."

She says nothing, only bows her head, touches his hand to her forehead. Like Cullen, Aeveth keeps her secrets close. She considers telling him, decides now is not the time. “I can’t bear to watch you fight this alone,” she says instead, knowing the words will go straight to his heart. Her fierce, golden Commander is so guarded, yet so easily felled by compassion and caring. He has spent so many years hardening himself, but he’s brittle now, easily cracked by her softest touch.

Aeveth leans down, brushes her lips to Cullen’s in the lightest of kisses. Cullen trembles beneath her; she can feel her kiss reverberating through his body, splintering his resolve. _Give in,_ she urges him in her mind. 

“I’m here. For you, Cullen. You don’t have to shut me out.”

He closes his eyes, sighs ever so softly. “I’ll… I’ll try not to.” 

There are words left unsaid, but Aeveth knows it’s just Cullen’s nature to think a hundred thoughts yet only speak one. The barrier he’s built around himself is stingy in both directions. She has to handle him delicately, widen the breach little by little, let herself blow seeds into the mortar of his walls and crack them with her growth.

She can’t bear to watch him fight alone, because his fight is her fight as well.

*** *** ***

She has nightmares too, but seldomly. At least, that’s how it used to be. Aeveth can never tell what’s going to set them off, only that when she finally tears herself awake her face is always wet with tears, half-frozen.

They come more frequently now after Corypheus. After Haven, after Redcliffe, after Adamant, and sometimes after the little things, like two bodies huddled together in the snow only a mile outside Skyhold. When she sleeps she dreams of what they were escaping, who they might have been, how they might have lived if only she had ridden back ten minutes earlier.

Aeveth doesn’t let Cullen see when they get bad. She can always tell when they’re worsening. She’ll wake with the sheets snaked around her neck, twisted into a rope; her body will be stiff and sore, like she’s been on the losing end of a fight. She’ll be jumpy and unfocused, incapable of holding a thought in her head.

When that happens, Aeveth deflects Cullen as best she can. She’s a night owl, she’ll tell him, and leave him in his frigid, open-sky quarters with a peck on the cheek. She has work to do, she’s going to the tavern for a drink with Dorian, she has to leave on an urgent trip. For the most part Cullen accepts her excuses.

Until one night when she explodes out of a nightmare, screaming, to find Cullen, wide-eyed and afraid, hands gripping her upper arms, holding her tight. Disoriented, she fights like a wild thing, thrashing, magic sparking in the air around them. She gabbles at him in half-formed words and hysterical breaths until Cullen’s steady presence her brings her back. 

The anchor is a lurid green glow on her hand, uneasy and crackling; a raging fire tries to escape the grate. Slowly, Cullen wipes away the frost encrusting her lips, shakes out glittering shards of ice from her hair. A sparkling nimbus of crystals hovers above them both, tiny snowflakes drifting down.

Aeveth begins shivering uncontrollably. Cullen pulls her into a hug, wordless, just encircles her with his arms and rests his chin on the crown of her head. When the shock wears off, Aeveth cries into his chest. Cullen just hugs her closer, lets her spend her tears into his shirt until it’s saturated. He lays down with her under the damp covers when she’s done, touches his forehead to hers, bumps her nose with his. It’s oddly cold.

“How long?” he breathes at her.

“I don’t know,” she replies truthfully. It’s an effort to meet his eyes. This close, she can see in so much detail: the striations of warm hazel and golden brown in his irises, the fleck of dark brown, a little mote, close to one of his pupils. “Cullen, I’m… I’m sorry.”

His eyelids flicker closed right before he kisses her - reassuring, comforting, safe. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Cullen’s expression is concerned when he looks at her. Aeveth is taken by the desire to smooth the line of worry away from between his eyebrows, uncrinkle the crow’s feet beginning to show around the corners of his eyes.

Instead, she gives him a small, tremulous smile. “So we’re even.”

“If you want to look at it that way.” Cullen shifts, freeing a hand, tracing fingertips through her hair. Aeveth closes her eyes, relaxes gratefully under him. “I don’t believe I have grasped how frightening it is until tonight. You were - your magic, it was… it was hard to wake you.”

Aeveth instantly feels a pang of guilt. “I didn’t mean to put you into this position,” she whispers to him. A former Templar with a mage lover, unable to snuff out unchecked magic? It’s a terrifying scenario, to be sure.

“I didn’t mean to either, but now I think I understand. Did you want to… talk about it?”

She really doesn’t, but the opening gambit is hers. 

Reluctantly, she tells him.

*** *** ***

They talk. They talk, and they talk, and over the span of weeks and months they hold each other and talk things out. At times neither of them wants to, and they leave each other alone. Sometimes they discuss the dreams, invent scenarios to defeat what’s haunting them. It’s therapeutic, in a fashion.

Aeveth, after a time, decides to go on a personal quest to find something for Cullen that might help ease the worst of the dreams. She searches, calls in favors from Leliana, asks Josephine to expend resources, taps Vivienne’s vast knowledge, goes to the library and listens to a stream of Tevene falling from Dorian’s lips, followed by an instant interpretation.

She is hesitant to give Cullen his gift when it arrives. It’s such a nondescript book, a slim volume plainly bound, but it’s a treasure, one of the few remaining intact copies. Aeveth is not sure if seeing it will trigger more dark things, or bolster his mental strength. She hesitates before she presses it into his hand.

“What’s this?” he asks her, a bit surprised. The wind is playful up on her balcony today, and it tugs at Cullen’s hair, pries a lock free, sends it whipping back and forth, glinting in the sun. His cloak blows about his legs, and the end of his waist sash flutters.

Aeveth interlaces her fingers together, looks down at her feet. “A gift,” she says quietly, but it’s stolen by the wind. “A gift,” she repeats herself, louder this time. “Or what I hope you see as a gift.” She watches Cullen inspect the spine of the book, run his finger down the lightly-frayed cloth. There are no markings. He turns it over to the front.

“It’s the Litany of Adralla,” Aeveth tells him. “I thought - it’s generally used for… I thought it might help.”

Cullen looks at her, eyes awed. “I know what this is,” he says, his voice a hush. Aeveth has to step closer to hear him. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you. Thank you.” He presses a kiss into her hair.

Aeveth tilts her chin up, angles for another kiss. “You like it then?”

They go from the balcony to the bed, and Cullen never answers.

*** *** ***

Cullen tells her he loves her whenever he can. He murmurs it into her ear as he passes by on the way out of the war room; he whispers it to her, face turned so only she can see, as he boosts her into her saddle. He says it between his smirks as he catches her in Skyhold’s kitchen, filching pastries, punctuates it with tender nips to her earlobe when he backs her up to the cooks’ floury counter. 

He croons it into her neck on good nights, and on the bad ones he clings to it, to her; clings to her hands, his knuckles white, face pale, body trembling. In those moments it’s she who says it, cradling his head close, his curls sweat-dampened; she who reminds him of reality in a low, soothing voice.

“Yes,” he sighs eventually. “I love you. My savior.”

Aeveth narrows one eye, her eyebrow furrowing. Cullen laughs at the expression. “Do you love me, or the idea of me?” she teases him.

“You, of course,” Cullen says.

Her face freezes.

He hesitated.

*** *** ***

She wonders sometimes how they can be good for each other. They are two broken things leaning against one another, holding each other up, with nothing in common but a shared goal and a habit of finding trouble. One day it will end just like everything else, Aeveth thinks, chest and stomach knotting up at the idea, a bitter swell rising in her throat. It might be good for both of them.

Cullen harbors the same thoughts, most likely, but he plays the optimist, takes things a day at a time, a night at a time. The Inquisition rolls on, and he with it, and as long as she is the Inquisitor, then they are inseparable, the head unsevered from the body.

Sometimes Cullen daydreams about returning to Honnleath to build a house along the shore of the lake, surround it with a sturdy stone fence, fill it with a large feather bed and the smell of fresh bread, a few children and plenty of love. It’s one of his favorite dreams that he uses to chase off the bad ones. Aeveth knows he sees her in it, can imagine her leaning against the doorframe of the house his hands made, her black hair tucked behind one ear, a welcoming smile on her face. 

She can indulge him, for a time. The dream appeals to her too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vigil, n.
> 
> 1\. a period of keeping awake during the time usually spent asleep, especially to keep watch or pray.

The Inquisitor has a new haunt.

Cullen finds her more and more in Solas’ old quarters, staring at the murals on the walls. Aeveth feels the elf’s absence keenly, and it shows in how often she spends time there. Some of the ever-present paperwork has moved into its own pile on Solas’ former desk, and she has found a poorly-thrown mug to keep the pile company. The Inquisitor will sit in the elf’s chair, finger tracing idly over a dried paint splatter on his desk, the chair tilted onto its back legs, rocking to and fro to the slow push of her feet.

“You miss him,” he says by way of greeting one late afternoon. Cullen has left his post early. There is a storm on its way to Skyhold, and he’s dismissed everyone back to the barracks to wait it out. 

She shakes herself, looks up at him, gives him a faint smile. “I do.” She returns to studying one of the earliest frescoes. “So many eyes…”

“Hmm?” Cullen tries to follow her gaze, but she stirs and gets up.

“Nothing.” Aeveth stretches, and Cullen hears joints popping. “Just a mystery. No matter how much we talked or spent time together, Solas was a mystery, and remains one. I tried to crack him, but he kept avoiding direct answers.”

He walks up to her, slips an arm around her waist. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you can’t let a puzzle go.”

“It’s true,” she says absentmindedly, her attention returning to the fresco. “I can’t help myself. I’m a problem solver.”

A thought occurs to him. He asks casually, “Am I - _was_ I a puzzle to you?”

“You are,” she replies softly, almost under her breath. She lifts a hand and puts her fingertips to her lips. “You are...my dearest problem.”

Cullen blinks. “At least… at least I am not your most troubling problem?”

She turns to him and laughs. “No, far from it. You are a knot I enjoy unraveling…” She leans into him, places her lips against his jaw. “...bit by bit.”

He wants to know more, wants to ask what exactly she means, but she tugs at his arm and draws him towards the main hall. “Let’s find something to eat and go upstairs,” she says to him, eyes a little too bright.

Cullen lets himself get pulled along, and puts his uneasy feeling away.

*** *** ***

Cullen wakes slowly from a dreamless sleep. It’s so dark that he isn’t sure at first if he’s awake or just dreaming. He closes and opens his eyes a few times, turns his head towards the window, sees the snow, a whirl of white, blowing sideways. Outside, the wind is lamenting, its voice rising and falling in a wailing threnody. Ice pelts against the windows in a scattershot rhythm. 

He slides his left arm under the covers, seeking, and finds only cold sheets. Aeveth is gone, and has been for some time. Her room, barring the noises of the storm, is eerily quiet.

Cullen levers himself up, shivers as the chill air steals the heat from the covers. He fumbles about, lights a candle, looks around. Her boots, those ridiculous Orlesian things with their multitudes of laces, are missing.

The Inquisitor has never shown a preference for wandering at night, but he knows that the behavior isn't unheard of. Worried, Cullen pulls his coat on over his woolen shirt, belts it quickly in the wan light, shoves his bare feet into his boots. He isn’t sure where she’ll be, but he has a suspicion.

The bottom room of the tower is silent as it is cold. The veilfire sconce on the scaffolding burns continually, smokeless, heatless, throwing the space into a cold blue light. “Inquisitor?” he calls out cautiously. “Aeveth?”

There is no answer. Cullen peers around the room, finds nothing, and is about to leave when his eye catches the small, humped shape atop the divan. He exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, approaches her, kneels down.

He knocks over a wine bottle with his leg. The glass rings painfully loud against the stone floor, but doesn’t shatter. “Andraste’s flaming hair,” Cullen mutters, reaching out to right it. It’s empty, and there is no wine glass. He frowns at the uncharacteristic show of excess. Aeveth doesn’t mind a glass or two, or even three, but hasn’t to his knowledge had the entire bottle to herself.

Cullen keeps watch over her for a time, turning his thoughts over in his head. This time of night is when time feels the most far away, and it will stretch seconds into minutes and into hours, given the chance. He is also painfully familiar with the other aspect of deep night: the human brain’s desire to uncage its imagination in every way possible. Cullen reins in his mind, tells himself to be reasonable, that there is a perfectly understandable explanation for why the Inquisitor is bunking alone in Solas’ quarters.

Eventually he puts a hand on her shoulder, shakes her lightly. She is facing away from him, huddled on her side, covered in a thin blanket he thinks is a dropcloth given how rough it feels under his fingers.

The veilfire blazes, and Aeveth comes awake with a gasping start, her body jerking as if it doesn’t recognize itself, as if it doesn’t know how to control itself. “Solas?” she asks, her voice tremulous.

Cullen retreats, stung. “I’m afraid not,” he says.

“Cullen! Maker, Cullen. I’m sorry.” Aeveth pushes herself to sitting, wobbly, and rubs her face. “I um… wasn’t expecting you.”

“What are you doing down here?” he questions her. 

She doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, Aeveth leans forward and drapes herself around his neck, her head heavy against his shoulder. The smell of red wine, thick and woody, envelops her in a close embrace. Cullen holds onto her, but not tightly. He’s concerned, and wants answers.

“I thought maybe I could find him in the Fade,” she says finally, her voice muffled by the fur of Cullen’s coat. “Thought that maybe enough of him echoed here that I could trace him. But there was nothing. Is nothing.” She sighs, shifts against him. Her next words are very, very quiet. “Solas used to… help me. In the Fade. When we slept.”

“And the wine?” he asks, pressing her.

She chuckles slowly. “It helps Dorian, doesn’t it?”

She can’t see him scowl. “Not in the same way you were hoping for, I think.”

Aeveth pushes away from him, meets his eyes with hers. The veilfire deepens the shadows on her face and turns her skin sickly pale. “Cullen, my love, how do you know that I wasn’t using it for the same exact purpose?”

Cullen can feel himself prickle. “You’re the Inquisitor, you shouldn’t be -”

“Don’t you tell me what I can or can’t do for myself.” There’s heat in her words; her eyes are narrowed at him. “You of all people should know this. I am not the Inquisitor right now. I’m just a woman looking for a bit of happiness at the bottom of a bottle, and a friend to help make the bad dreams go away.”

Two punches, one-two, lightning quick to his chest. Cullen takes a deep breath, tries to still his suddenly harsh breathing, tries to calm the frenetic rush of his heart. He shouldn’t feel wounded, but he is. Of course she would have nightmares while away from Skyhold; of course her inner circle would all step in to help her.

He’s never really asked about what goes on during missions. In a naive way, Cullen has assumed it’s all business, professionals doing what they do best. But it’s foolish of him not to consider the untold stories being written every time she exits the gates, the partnership of battle, the campfire camaraderie. He’s put his trust in her, and has never asked.

Maybe he _should_ ask, since she won’t tell.

“Did you find either?” Cullen’s voice sounds harsh, even to his ears.

Aeveth barks a laugh and stands, letting the dropcloth slip onto the divan. “No.”

She walks out, spine straight, and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for still being here with me through this mess. Comments and/or kudos are always appreciated, but I'll take tomatoes too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vigilance, n.  
> the action or state of keeping careful watch for possible danger or difficulties.

“I really must ask, Aeveth. When was the last time you sharpened this?”

She pulls herself away from watching the last of the sunset, looks over her shoulder at Cullen, hair wet from the bath, a towel around his waist. The reddish light coming in the windows tints everything it touches, lays quiet against the floor, pools at his feet. It wraps his body in a warm halo, bringing out hints of cinnamon in his hair.

Aeveth stares.

Cullen coughs, cheeks pinking with embarrassment at her unabashed ogling. “The uh, the dagger you carry. When was the last time you sharpened it?”

Aeveth’s brows quirk, coming together in an expression of puzzlement. “Why are you asking?” The knife in question is laying on her desk in a plain, worn sheath.

“I was just thinking in the bath, that’s all. As a Circle mage, you must have been told about the necessity of protecting yourself if other options are exhausted.” Cullen tucks his towel around him tighter and picks up the knife. He pulls it out, inspects the blade. 

“Aeveth.” His tone is disapproving.

She turns fully to him, putting her back against the balcony railing. “What?” she asks, a bit petulantly.

“You'd be hard-pressed to cut butter with this edge. How do you expect to defend yourself?” Cullen sighs and begins opening the drawers of her desk. “Do you have a stone?”

“If you think I’m going to defeat more darkspawn magisters from legend by poking them in the eye with my dagger, then I’ve got the deed to Lake Calenhad.” She crosses her arms, the center of her lips pushing out into a sulk. “Bottom left drawer.”

Cullen retrieves the stone from the drawer, makes a _tsk_ sound as he rummages around for the requisite oil. He sits down at her desk and lays out his implements. “You may be surprised to learn that I do care about your well-being,” he says, not looking at her, holding up the dagger and turning it so he can see the angle of the edge. “ _Your_ well-being. Not the Inquisitor’s.”

Aeveth bites the inside of her lower lip, inhales against the stinging in her eyes. It’s been a week since Cullen found her in her rather sorry state, and a few days since she’s apologized for her behavior. Kindness and a bit of contrition have gone a long way towards soothing ruffled feathers, though Aeveth has still not spoken of any details. They've been awkward around each other since, and today is the first time Aeveth has invited Cullen back up to her quarters, luring him in with the promise of a very hot bath in a tub he actually fits into. 

She takes the humorous tack instead. “Yes, that Inquisitor woman can sod right off. What an ass.”

Cullen’s head comes up sharply, and he clamps his lips tight around a laugh. A strangled sound escapes him, but he says nothing more, just looks back down to see if the oil has soaked into the stone. Finding it to his satisfaction, he takes her dagger, angles it against the stone, and begins pushing it away in smooth, even strokes.

Aeveth turns back around, but the sun has already set. The clouds have lost their fiery outlines, cooling rapidly to a dusky evening blue. She sighs, then walks back inside, shutting the balcony doors behind her, going to the fireplace to add more logs to the flames. Cullen is hard at work, eyes intent and focused on his task, his lower lip jutting out adorably as he concentrates. 

She waits a minute. “Done yet?”

“Maker, no,” Cullen sighs, “I’ve only just begun. And you’ll need to take this to Master Harritt so that he can put a proper edge on this. Or Dagna. Perhaps she can spell an edge.”

“I’m sure that it’ll be fine.” Aeveth folds herself into a cross-legged position on the bed, watches Cullen as he pushes the knife against the stone, _shhhhk, shhhhk._ “I never use it for anything besides opening letters.”

“Please just take it,” Cullen says, locking eyes with her. Aeveth’s breath catches when she sees the raw emotion in his face. “I don’t want to argue about _this_ , of all things. Please, allow me this one indulgence for my peace of mind when you aren’t home.”

 _Home._ Here, this room, these quarters. Home. Perhaps Cullen is only using the word in its most basic sense, but Aeveth finds herself longing for the close comfort of shared space, the casual intimacy of a single hamper for clothing. “Home?” she prompts him.

Cullen doesn’t miss a beat. “Home. Here. With me.”

It hangs between them for a long moment, the idea almost tangible in the air. Aeveth unfolds herself, approaches Cullen in a daze. He takes her hand when she nears, draws her gently down for a long, tender kiss that has him abandoning the dagger on the desk in order to take her face into his hands. Cullen kisses her breathless, and when at last he pulls away from her, her chest is tight, her heart pounding.

“All right,” she whispers. “I’ll bring it to Master Harritt in the morning.”

He cups her cheek, fingertips stroking the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Why the morning?”

“Because.” Aeveth stands up, giving him an adoring smile. “You still don’t have any clothes on, ser.”

“Ah. Well then.” Cullen stands as well, takes her into his arms, lowers his lips to hers. “The morning it is.”

*** *** ***

Aeveth opens her eyes to pre-dawn darkness. For a moment, she enjoys the feel of the thick comforter and soft feather bed surrounding her, listens to Cullen’s peaceful, slow breathing. It’s been a much-needed quiet night, with untroubled, pleasant sleep.

She turns her head to look at Cullen, but the darkness is still close and thick. Aeveth decides instead to roll onto her side and worm under the covers until she is pressed up against his arm, her hand settling onto the warm, bare skin of Cullen’s chest. She places a kiss against his shoulder - places another, she can’t help herself, Cullen has such lovely musculature - and lets her eyes drift closed, her breaths growing more regular, syncing with Cullen’s.

Aeveth dozes on and off until she can’t doze anymore. No matter the amount of time she spends at Skyhold, ingrained travel habits are still hard to ignore. She finds it difficult to sleep through third watch, but sometimes, if she tries enough, she can close her eyes and nap until the eighth bell. Not today, however.

The sky is beginning to lighten, and with a sigh and one last kiss on Cullen’s shoulder, Aeveth extricates herself carefully from the bed. The rugs on the floor keep the worst of the chill from her feet as she dresses herself quickly, wanting to warm up as soon as possible. She goes to the fireplace, stacks some logs, lights them with a wave of her hand. Aeveth glances behind her nervously, checking to see if Cullen is awake. He isn’t, and she relaxes. Curbing her casual use of magic has been difficult around him, but she knows that it can make him uneasy at times. Cullen acts, for the most part, as if he has recovered well from his traumatic past, but Aeveth sees no reason to test his mental fortitude.

She goes to her desk, where her dagger is laying, re-sheathed. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands, runs fingers over the smooth, supple leather of the belt, pushes finger pads into the belt holes until little divots dot her skin. She doubts she’ll ever use the knife, but Cullen had been insistent the night before. Aeveth wonders what exactly he imagines might hurt her when she’s fighting demons, bears, giant spiders, or red Templars, none of which would be dissuaded by a little poke from a belt knife.

A rustling of the bedsheets gets her attention. Cullen sits up, rubbing his eyes with his palms. His blond hair is perfectly, wonderfully tousled, the stubble on his face a dark shadow. All in all, he looks remarkably rested. She gives him a smile bordering on a leer when the covers slip down, baring him to his waist.

He yawns, covering his mouth, then catches her grinning at him. “I know that look,” he says, his voice softer and more raspy than usual. Aeveth’s grin just grows broader when she hears him. “You’re incorrigible, do you know that?”

“Mm-hmm.” Aeveth gives her lover an arch look. “Is it a sin to admire you?”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen slips out of bed, starts pulling on clothes. “No, it isn’t. I’m just not used to...such things.”

Aeveth hums tunelessly, playing with her ear. She’s still smiling as she watches him fumble around, almost tripping on his boots. She sets the dagger and its belt down, watches Cullen get into his breeches with a look reminiscent of a cat in cream.

And then - “I beg your pardon!” Aeveth covers her mouth with her hand and giggles in disbelief. “Did you just wiggle your bottom at me?”

Cullen’s face is carefully neutral, though she can see the hint of a smirk playing about his mouth. “Don’t be absurd,” he says to her. “Of course not.”

She snickers. “No, of course not. My Commander is always so serious and in control. He would never do something so silly as wiggle his bum in front of the Inquisitor.”

“Oh, is she around?” Cullen says lightly as he finishes lacing up. He gives her a bright smile. “I thought she bloody well sodded off.”

Aeveth’s laugh bursts out of her, a sudden thing that’s rooted in her belly. It’s a wide-mouthed, wrinkle-nosed laugh, one that has Cullen beaming back at her. She sighs happily. 

“She bloody well did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of fluff to hold onto before times get rough. Comments, kudos, tomatoes, yadda yadda ya.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vigilante, pl. vigilantes, n.
> 
> a member or members of a self-appointed group of citizens who undertake law enforcement in their community without legal authority, typically because the legal agencies are thought to be inadequate.
> 
> Trigger warning: unintentional self-harm

Cullen hums when he’s happy.

He’s been at it for some time, and his voice is warmed up and limber. He’s humming quietly to himself now, one of the rarer hymns dedicated to Andraste. Cullen’s knowledge of the Chant’s accompanying musical repertoire is second to none, pitch-perfect even, and here in the Hinterlands, away from Skyhold, he feels free enough, unburdened enough, to exercise that knowledge.

The hymn drifts to a close and Cullen inhales through his nose, breathing deeply, mind searching for the first trope of the hymn. Was it…?

“Please don’t stop,” Aeveth says softly, at his shoulder.

He turns his head to regard her, smiling. “You were listening?”

Aeveth indicates the party behind them with a slight incline of her head. “I think we all were, and the horses too. If you ever decide to retire from your post, I think Master Dennet could use your talents.”

He laughs gently. “Somehow, I doubt that the horses and barn animals would convert,” he tells her. “Besides, I sing the songs to glorify the Maker and his Bride.”

Aeveth bites her lip, breaking eye contact. She has been, and continues to be, uncomfortable with Andrastian theology. “You could just sing, because it’s pleasurable to do so.”

Cullen sighs inwardly. Aeveth’s faith, or the lack of it, has never been an easy topic. He believes she’s Maker-touched, but when pressed, Aeveth will state flatly that a spirit in the Fade took the form of Divine Justinia, and guided her to safety. She could not presume, she’ll say, to be anyone but herself, an unfortunate human being who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To Cullen, it’s all the more evidence that she is blessed.

Cullen’s learned to simply avoid the subject. Instead, he says, “You’re right.”

They ride on in silence for a while.

*** *** ***

Aeveth senses the rift around mid-afternoon. She calls a halt to the party, snatches a map from Blackwall’s saddlebags. Cullen watches her dismount and unfold it, eyes darting over the paper before she makes her decision. She gives them orders coolly, succinctly, and as they turn their mounts in the direction of the rift, Cullen admires how naturally she takes control, how second-nature the burden of command has become. 

He’s proud of her.

Cullen feels the rift before he sees it, swallows down the nausea gripping his guts, the unnatural edginess of it buzzing in his teeth. He tastes metal and ash on his tongue; his ears begin to ring. The area around the rift is stained a sickening green, and if he looks at it too long his head starts swimming, his eyeballs aching. Around him, Aeveth’s companions are dismounting, checking gear and hobbling their horses. They say nothing as they prepare, and Cullen can almost see them become one whole, cohesive unit, a deadly team, driven by purpose.

“Let Thom take point on this, Cullen,” Aeveth says to him, and he acquiesces, nodding once. “Get your hits in when you can. Varric and Dorian will take care of you. Don’t worry about me.”

"Yes," Dorian pipes up drily, "she really means it, even if she screams like she is being murdered."

"Only partially murdered, dear friend," Aeveth jokes back, unlimbering her staff from her back and using it to stretch. The anchor, attuned to the rift, flares to life.

"Oh, and Curly?” Varric chimes in. “Don’t stand in the green stuff.”

“Green stuff?” Cullen asks, but Blackwall’s got his shield up, and Dorian is chanting in Tevene, voice sing-song over the sudden din of flames roaring to life. Aeveth is, rather misguidedly, Cullen thinks, the first to engage, and as she enters the perimeter of the rift demons spring from the ground, shrieking as they are devoured in Dorian’s fire.

Lightning crackles, flames burn. Cullen throws himself into the fight, sword swinging against a rage demon. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Aeveth running pell-mell through demons, lightning spidering out from her staff. As one, the demons turn, their attention focused solely on her. Cullen feels his heart drop to his feet.

She comes pelting back to Blackwall, the demons following close behind. As they cluster, Bianca looses an exploding salvo, striking the foremost demon and flattening three into the ground. Aeveth makes a wild gesture and a ball of coruscating lightning appears in the sky above their heads, stabbing points into the grass. 

Behind him, Cullen hears cackling and gibbering. He turns to see Dorian wreathed in green flame, spectres rising around him.

“Dorian!” Aeveth shouts, and the Tevinter mage answers, the ghosts crowding into the cage of lightning. Blackwall stands in the thick of it, impassive and stalwart, sword flashing as it rises and falls, shield thumping as he cracks it against demonic flesh.

Aeveth raises her left hand, and an emerald beam emanates from it, striking the rift. The rift shudders, pressure blowing out of it in an uncomfortable crescendo. An explosion of light and sound follows, leaving Cullen disoriented. When he regains his senses, he sees the demons have all fallen.

“Is that it?” he asks, trying to catch his breath.

“Not at all!” Varric answers him cheerfully. “That was only the first wave.”

Aeveth tosses a small, corked tube to Dorian, who catches it, opens it in a practiced gesture, and tips the contents into his mouth. Blue light flares around his eyes for a brief second before he dispels one of the fetid, misty pools of light. Cullen feels the spell almost like an implosion of air, a sucker punch to his chest.

He realizes, belatedly, that Dorian has drunk a lyrium potion.

Cullen’s mouth goes dry.

He has no time to think about it as the next wave appears. It goes by in what feels like mere moments, bookended by that ear-popping pressure. On the third wave, a terror demon appears, and Cullen acquits himself nicely by not standing in anything strange-looking. He’s found the rhythm of the fight now - his shield, angled in front of Varric, deflects a wraith’s weakness bolt; a timely strike, his back to Blackwall’s, protects the other man’s flank.

The demons have almost been corralled when he hears Aeveth’s cry of surprise. Cullen whips his head around, seeking her, finds her right as she’s tossed into the air, losing her footing. She hits the ground hard, the terror demon materializing above her, claws striking for her face.

Blackwall charges over, calmly smashes his shield into the demon’s chest, and knocks it backwards. Aeveth scrambles up and raises her arm to close the rift. Cullen runs over to her, but she shakes her head at him, points to the the wraiths bearing down on her. With a growl he engages them just long enough for the rift to close, Varric and Dorian providing support as he does.

It’s suddenly too still. Aeveth drops to her knees, exhausted. Cullen hurries over, sheathing his sword, his heart still pounding. She folds forward, almost collapses, but puts an arm out just in time to catch herself. Blood is sheeting down one side of her face, and her right shoulder guard is mangled beyond recognition, her upper arm a mess of blood. Ichor spatters the rest of her armor, smoking as it eats into the cloth.

“My lady, you’re hurt.” Blackwall kneels down, and with appalling familiarity, reaches close and grabs Aeveth’s dagger, putting the edge to her sleeve and slicing up swiftly.

Dorian appears, two slender vials held between his fingers. “Down the hatch, my dear,” he says to her soothingly, putting a hand under her chin and tilting up her face. Obediently, Aeveth opens her mouth, swallows the potions down. “There’s a good girl.”

Varric holsters Bianca with a mechanical _tchunk_ , then joins the other men working to get Aeveth’s armored surcoat off. The three of them work quickly, shoulder to shoulder, and Cullen gives them space, distancing himself from the quartet. In the back of his mind, Cullen thinks about how inappropriate it is to witness three men stripping his lover down.

Aeveth gets to her feet with a groan once the surcoat is in pieces, touches her shoulder, grimaces. “Everyone all right?” she asks.

Blackwall slings his shield onto his back, pushes himself off the ground. “Not a scratch on any of us, my lady. Though you’ll need another new coat.”

Cullen looks. Blackwall is right. Aside from Dorian’s slightly mussed hair and a few out-of-place articles of clothing, no one else, himself included, has taken any wounds.

“Good,” Aeveth says in a voice tight with pain. She hisses sharply as she begins limping off towards the horses. “I thought that one was ugly anyway.” 

Dorian leans back, barking a laugh into the sky. “I hear Vivienne has the latest catalogue from Val Royeaux and has been hiding it from us,” he says, catching up to her, taking her elbow. She leans against him, letting her head rest against the mage’s shoulder for just a moment.

Cullen breathes evenly, trying to keep his emotions from boiling to the surface. He gives Blackwall a scathing look. “Shouldn’t you have been protecting her?” he asks, tones clipped.

Blackwall whips demon guts off his sword, sheaths it. “Do you mean that last pass there? I did protect her. Now the rift’s sealed, and the Inquisitor’s done her job. We’ll have a nice, relaxing ride back to Skyhold.”

Cullen’s nostrils flare. “But she’s _injured_ , and your role is to be her shield.” He finds that his hands have balled into fists. He’s not sure why Aeveth trusts Blackwall as much as she does; given his poor showing, she shouldn’t trust him at all. “She’s the only one of us we cannot afford to lose, and... and…” He fumbles for words, trying to express his frustration.

Varric steps up next to him, shaking his head. “Don’t even try to understand it, Curly. This is her strategy for these things. Believe me, we’ve tried it other ways, and this one’s the best.” He shrugs. “Call it being stupid brave, a masochistic sense of responsibility, or a survivor’s guilt complex the size of the Free Marches, but this?” Varric gestures to himself and Blackwall. “This is what she _wants._ ” He pauses, and the mood grows somber. “This is how she copes.”

Cullen grinds his teeth. “Surely she isn’t the only one taking injury in every melee.”

The dwarf chuckles. “You wanted to know what happens when we’re out. Now you know, and I’ll hazard a guess that you wish you didn’t. Yes, for the routine stuff, she’s the one who gets hurt, though sometimes Hero here or the Seeker get knocked about pretty good.” Blackwall grunts, an affirmation. “She does what she needs to do in order to finish the job, and we pick up her pieces and patch them up afterwards. Are you really surprised? It isn’t any different from how it’s always been.”

Cullen realizes, with growing alarm, that Varric is right.

*** *** ***

The camp is quiet that night. Blackwall, having claimed first watch, sits by the fire and whittles until Judex wheels over them in the sky, marking the beginning of his vigil. Varric retires to his tent to rest before second watch, leaving Dorian to finish preparing dinner.

Cullen sits in front of the tent he and Aeveth share, one knee up, right arm resting atop it. She is in bed and asleep already, her injuries tended to and tightly bandaged. He’s inspected her himself despite her glaring and protestations of, “Cullen, I’m _fine_.” No matter what she says, he isn’t going to have the Inquisitor take an infection, not while he’s around.

Dorian saunters over, hands over a plate with freshly cooked sausages and a hunk of bread. “So far so good,” he says. “It seems she was right about you being here.”

Cullen feels an eyebrow raising. “What do you mean by that?”

“Ah.” Dorian hunkers down next to Cullen, takes a moment to settle himself. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s remained mum on the subject. Our Inquisitor does love keeping things to herself.” Dorian exhales long through his nose, regards Cullen thoughtfully. “She mentioned that she might sleep better with you here.”

It’s a small comfort to Cullen. He wonders what else Aeveth has been keeping from him, and if everyone in Skyhold knows about her sleeping habits.

Dorian continues. “If you’re wondering why she’s been so bent on finding Solas, it’s because he’s the only one of us who can prevent the nightmares from happening. I haven’t the same skill with the Fade as he has, nor his expertise on sleep patterns. Nor, truth be told, did I spend three days and nights observing her.” He spreads his hands, palms up, in front of him. “I can’t explain exactly what Solas did, only that he would walk in the Fade with her at the beginning of the night, and that seemed to keep most of the bad dreams at bay.”

Cullen wonders now if she’s ever been with him while traversing the Fade with Solas.

Dorian’s expression softens as he looks at Cullen. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you worry. There goes Pavus again, sticking his foot in his mouth. A Dorian specialty.” He smiles. “She _does_ love you, you know.”

Was he that transparent? “Thank you, Dorian. Could you inform Varric to wake me for third watch?” Cullen puts his plate down, food uneaten. He’s lost his appetite.

“Are you sure? Aeveth always takes that one.”

“If you could be so kind, I would appreciate it.” Cullen pulls aside the tent flap, ducks in. Inside it is pitch dark, but Cullen finds his bedroll without trouble and lays down, his mind already going into overdrive. He thinks about the ease with which Aeveth trusts her companions and how she isn’t always forthright with him. He thinks about how much her friends care for her, how they’d each lay their lives down for her without a second thought, how there is true friendship and love between them all.

Cullen thinks about how much _better_ they all know her than he does, and with an ache in his heart, he finds that he is jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enchantment? Enchantment! And by enchantment, I mean that I appreciate any kudos, comments, or rotten fruit thrown my way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Though there is no physical abuse, the trauma inflicted may be triggering to victims of physical and emotional abuse. Dubious consent sexual situations are also present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> invigilator, n.
> 
> one who supervises students at an examination.

These things she always remembers: the scrape of boots on the rough floor, the bite of cold stone on her back, the clank of the manacles around her wrists and ankles, holding her down. The way her thin shift rides up past her knees in a room of Templars, fully armored and visored, their hard gazes locked onto her like hawks upon prey. The fear, all-consuming, rising up to choke her, leaving tears that slide from the corners of her eyes and into her ears as she lies on the stone slab, awaiting her Harrowing. _Maker help me,_ she prays, a litany. _Maker guide me, Andraste preserve me, Maker help me, Maker guide me._

Her phylactery glows softly like a little star, pinkish in the dark. She can feel the spell infusing the glass, feel the blood call out to her. She flexes her arm, tests the tightness of her shackles, tries to bend her elbow, where there is a scar from the incision. A low voice murmurs, another responds, and soon they are murmuring together in a susurrating, unfamiliar spell. _Andraste preserve me,_ she prays harder, her fear growing. _Maker help me, Maker guide me._

A Templar approaches her, sets a lyrium draught to her lips. Out of instinct she refuses, clamping her jaws shut, turning her head away. An unyielding hand in a leather glove grabs her chin, squeezes her cheeks until her lips part. She tries to fight, but this Templar is practiced, and the draught is poured into her mouth. The Templar holds her jaw shut, pinches her nose so that she can’t breathe. _Andraste preserve me, Maker help me!_

She swallows.

The demon they summon is a desire demon, and it assaults her mind with everything she has ever wanted. The Trevelyan keep, now hers, its stables full of beautifully-bred hotbloods; a sumptuous garden, blooming with hundreds and hundreds of roses; two children, fraternal twins, a boy and a girl, with golden eyes and dark brown hair. “Mama, mama!” they call to her. She kneels down to hug them both, hears footsteps on the gravel path, looks up to see her lord husband striding towards them, a warm smile on his face.

It’s Cullen, and Aeveth screams.

Everything is wrong, and Aeveth screams. The vision melts away, is replaced with one of her up against a wall, strong hands holding her, lips on her neck, her name being called, over and over. “Aeveth,” he breathes, moving in her, and she sings out her pleasure for him. “Aeveth, _Aeveth_ , I love you,” and something in his voice makes her open her eyes. The sight of golden hair, silvered in the moonlight, greets her; his body is hot and urgent against hers, and from the way he fits inside her she just _knows_ it’s Cullen.

 _No, no!_ she thinks frantically, her body seizing up. _Maker guide me, Andraste preserve me, Maker, help me! **Help me!**_ “What’s wrong?” Cullen asks her, purest love shining in his eyes. His hips move against hers; she shudders with sheer pleasure. 

“Maker,” she says, but it comes out as a moan. _Maker guide…_ She loses the thought as Cullen strokes into her deeply, smoothly; he’s electrifying. She is on fire, she wants to give in; she’s burning, she wants to fight it. She craves the burst of release and Cullen’s seed filling her; she’s revolted at the idea, she wants to vomit.

She can’t give in. She can’t give into the demon because they will kill her. She will be possessed, and they will kill her.

“Is this not what you desire?” Cullen asks her, voice low and growling, and now there’s something off about him, a cruel cast to his face. “Is this not what you want?”

Aeveth pushes against him, tries to break free. “No!” she sobs, “No! No!”

“But Aeveth,” Cullen pleads with her, “Aeveth, I love you. Aeveth, wake up. _Wake up_ , love, you’re having a nightmare…”

Aeveth’s eyes fly open. It’s Cullen again, and he’s got a hold on her arms, is saying something to her that she can’t make out. “No!” she shouts, and when he doesn’t let go of her, she draws breath and screams. Blindly, she reaches for her magic. The air shimmers around her, and fire bursts to life in the air around her arms, flickering around her eyes, threatening to grow into a storm and consume everything.

Cullen’s eyes, tight with fear, spark with something, then blaze with light. Force slams into Aeveth’s chest, crushing her, and she feels the breath being knocked out of her body. Around her, the magic dies; the world grays out, mutes, then rushes back in, sound and color and all senses igniting.

They freeze, shocked.

“What did you do?” Aeveth whispers, trembling, aghast. “Cullen, what did you _do_ ?!”

Panic engulfs her now, and before Cullen can answer, Aeveth has torn herself out of his hands with a hysterical sob. She scrambles out of bed, legs tangling in sheets; she hits the floor with a hard thump, cracks her elbow against the stone. She heaves herself to her feet and just runs for it, half-falling down the stairs, throwing open the door to her quarters and sprinting out into the Great Hall. There is only one place she can go, one place where she might feel safe. Her bare feet slap loudly against the stone as she runs, breath ragged, weeping openly.

The veilfire is as it always is in Solas’ atrium. Aeveth trips as she crosses the threshold, falls again, pulls herself up using the door handle, and slams the door behind her. She locks it with difficulty, vision blurred from her tears, then goes and seals every entrance to the room.

The shakes catch her as she’s walking away from the last door, and with a moan, she crumples to the ground, twitching and gasping. She stays like that, huddled, and lets herself cry. She cries out of fear for what happened; she cries for the trust that’s been irretrievably, irreparably broken.

When the wracking sobs stop, and all that’s left is listless heaviness, Aeveth drags herself to the divan and curls up on it. She only has one thought in her mind as exhaustion takes over and she loses consciousness.

She is his Andraste, and he is her Maferath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me?
> 
> I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but I think the intensity more than makes up for it. Comments, kudos, rotten fruit, or wailing and gnashing of teeth, all accepted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vigil, n.
> 
> 3\. an act or period of watching or surveillance.

Hands, balled together, pressing against his forehead. Elbows resting heavy on knees, body bent at a dispirited 45-degree angle as he sits in a chair by her bedside. Breaths long and measured in an attempt to keep himself from breaking down. Cullen keeps vigil, with only his thoughts, darker than shadows, for company.

They had found her on Solas’ couch. Dorian spied her first, had peeked over the railing of the library and found her facedown, unresponsive, below. Cole had to be summoned to pick the lock on the door, working in uncharacteristic silence. Neither Dorian nor the others had needed any explanation to understand that something awful had happened; when Aeveth did not wake up, that suspicion turned to simmering outrage, mounting as Cullen took her prone body gently in his arms and carried her slowly through the Great Hall in broad daylight.

He sits, and the hours slip by. Morning light slants across the floor, the arc of the sun changes, afternoon comes and goes in a haze of tortured thoughts. The sky pinks, heralding sunset, and Cullen continues to sit and watch, waiting for her to wake up.

The door opens; heavy footfalls draw near. There is a loaded silence, then a loud sigh. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Cullen knows, knows that if he’s the first person she sees it will only make things worse, and yet he can’t tear himself away from her. He wants to tell her how sorry he is, fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness for doing the one thing that would drive her away forever.

“Cullen.” Bull’s voice is kind; a massive hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here when she wakes up.”

He swallows his grief, nods. “I know. But I want to be. To - to ask her to forgive me.”

Bull sighs again, and his other hand touches Cullen’s other shoulder. Bull holds fast to him as he is hauled out of the chair. “Cullen. You know that would be a shitty idea. You look terrible, let’s get you cleaned up. Madam Vivienne can take your place.” 

Cullen notes that Bull does not mention forgiveness. 

Cullen almost protests, wants to tell Iron Bull that his place is _here_ , but when he sees Vivienne’s face, hard with anger, the feeling fades, leaving him drained. “What happened?” she asks him, her voice like a steel blade, striking at his heart.

He takes in a breath, almost tells her everything. Instead he says, “I… I seem to have exercised some latent Templar abilities.”

The look Vivienne gives him chills him to the bone.

*** *** ***

Iron Bull is a gentle but firm guide, sending Cullen to clean himself up in a tone that brooks no argument. Once Cullen is adequately presentable, Bull steers him towards the tavern, clears the common room out with a look, and surrounds him with the Chargers.

He slides a plate of something in front of Cullen - he can’t even look at it, he is not hungry in the slightest - and sits across the table, folding his arms.

“So. You wanna talk? Let’s talk. It’s something you need to practice, if you want to stop hurting her.” Krem hands Bull a glass of beer. Bull slides it across the tabletop.

Cullen looks at it blankly.

“Drink,” Bull tells him. When he gets no reaction, Bull narrows his eye and growls, “ _Drink_ , dammit.”

Cullen sets his jaw but reaches out all the same for the glass, taking a long pull that leaves it half empty. “If you want me to talk, then I would much prefer to do it in private.”

“Fine by me.” Bull jerks his head to the side. “Take off, boys. Make sure none of Sera’s little friends are hanging around.” Once the room empties, Bull turns his attention back to Cullen. “What happened last night?”

Cullen takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. His day of mental self-flagellation has not left him at all inured to thinking about what he’s done. “She…she ah, had a nightmare.”

Bull raises an eyebrow, re-crosses his arms over his chest. “She’s been known to have those, yeah. Thought she was doing better with you, now that Solas is gone.”

“Maker’s ass, does _everyone_ know about Solas but me?” Cullen snaps, fury spiking hot and tight in him.

“No, not everyone,” Bull says calmly. “Just her inner circle. We’re the ones out with her when she loses her shit at night.”

Cullen glares viciously. “So Varric has insinuated.”

“Look, Cullen, I’m going to be brutally honest with you.” Bull leans forward, his horns casting long shadows over the table. “This? All of this? It isn’t healthy. Both of you need to stop pretending everything is fine, that you have no issues to discuss - no, that. Stop _that_ , stop pushing your feelings down, you quit that shit right now, Cullen.”

He makes a concerted effort to unclench his jaw.

Bull goes on. “The two of you have real issues with communication, which is really… weird. It’s weird, all right? Because Aeveth won’t shut up about you. Or you about her.”

Cullen interjects crossly. “I beg your pardon, Bull, but I’ve never -”

“Come on!” Bull exclaims, exasperated. “You don’t have to say anything, your body language is loud enough. If it’s just sex between you two, all right, I can respect that. But it isn’t just that, which is why you’re so mad about the elf. You shouldn’t be, but there it is.” He pulls back with a sigh. “So what did you do that’s got you ready to jump off the mountain?”

Cullen swallows, looks down at the table, at his hands, anywhere but Iron Bull’s piercing, knowing eye. The words come, bitter, slow, difficult. “She had… I tried to wake her. She’s had bad ones like this before, with… with magic. When she opened her eyes, she didn’t know me.” Cullen puts a hand to his face, hoods his eyes. “She tried to attack me, and I… I smote her.”

There isn’t silence. There is instead a complete cessation of everything, a heavy, hanging stillness.

Leather creaks. “You did _what_?”

Cullen’s elbows meet the table with a soft thunking sound. He puts his face in his hands, squeezes his eyes shut. “I dispelled her, like a Templar.”

Bull lets out a long, long breath, says nothing. Cullen looks up once he’s gathered himself, sees that Bull has his face in one hand, his shoulders slumped. Finally, he says, voice gone quiet, “Are you taking lyrium?”

Cullen stands abruptly, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but where he is. His blood is burning in him, searing his chest, prickling his eyes and nose, needling his fingertips. “No,” he says shortly. He is unable to manage anything else.

His steps take him to the tavern door, where he pauses. “I’ll be in the chantry.”

Softly, from far away, Bull says, “I hope it helps you.”


	7. Chapter 7

She walks the Fade, aimless, wandering. She drifts, incorporeal, seeking and not seeking, parting the mists of dreams before her, floating among them. She ghosts through the Beyond, touching places she’s been, breathing in the echoes of the people she knows, drinking down their memories and experiences, watery and thin.

Spirits follow in her wake, showing themselves only in the corners of her eyes, their forms wispy, translucent. Her mind is strangely blank as she meanders through the empty hallways of Skyhold, the fortress shifting and changing before her eyes.

She sits, or hovers, and the spirits gather around her, caress her face, whisper to her in a language she does not know. It’s cold here, like the real thing ( _is this not the real thing?_ ), but she pays it no attention, keeps her eyes closed against the chill, holds herself motionless.

When she opens her eyes she finds herself sitting on the desk in the atrium. Solas’ veilfire burns here too, clearer and more real-looking than she has ever seen. It’s surrounded by a silvery-gray haze, and as she observes her surroundings she sees that the entire room is filled with light fog. She turns herself in a circle to observe the walls. They are both adorned and unadorned, painted and bare, hung with full tapestries and threadbare, slashed banners.

There - the barest hint of a knowing smile, a reverberation of a quiet voice. Aeveth remembers, spins her memories out into the Fade in a cascade of shimmering threads. She touches one and it vibrates lightly under her fingers, curls onto itself in tendrils, dissipates into the brume. After a moment a vision appears. She sees herself, sitting on the divan, facing someone sitting behind a desk. They are talking, but Aeveth hears nothing but a low hum. She watches herself, distantly curious, watches her face light up with knowledge, frown in confusion, laugh in triumph, focus on engaging conversation. Her arms move sometimes in a pantomime of spellcasting; at the same time, a shadowy imprint of herself lays on the divan, eyes closed, knees bent and pointing upwards, black hair spread in a spiderweb tangle across the cushions. She watches, feeling an odd sense of companionship, a fondness, like an older brother would have for a younger sister.

The spirits are excited, crowding around the couch, pushing into each other, folding into each other for a chance to experience the memories before they ripple away and disappear.

_You shouldn’t be here._

A reflection of a voice, barely recognizable, comes to her ears. Aeveth’s forehead wrinkles in puzzlement as she listens closely, tries to make out more sounds. Something - someone - is calling to her.

_You shouldn’t be here when she wakes up._

She’s...dreaming.

*** *** ***

When she wakes, Aeveth finds that she has missed a full cycle of the sun, an entire day come and gone as she traversed the Fade. She opens her eyes - sandy and gritty, almost sealed shut - to the paling sky of third watch, stars retreating into the whitening firmament, moon hanging still in the night blue of the heavens. Her silver face stares imperiously down; she is surrounded by glittering admirers.

Thom is the first one she sees, sitting by the fire, backlit by dancing flames. Aeveth is tired, so tired. Her exhaustion is bone-deep, weighing her down, sinking into her chest. She tries to rise, fails twice. She calls out for him and he responds, getting up, helping her into a sitting position.

His steady, unwavering presence is comforting. He asks after her; she says, mouth still ashen and cottony, lips dry and cracked, that she has been better. Thom chuckles a little at her understatement, but she can see the worry in his eyes. The rising sun highlights the gray threaded through his beard, the lightening hairs at his temples, and Aeveth has to suppress the urge to apologize for everything. All of it.

Instead she reaches out and takes Thom’s hand, holds it tightly, absurdly grateful for his silence. He asks no more questions, simply sits by her, her two hands around his one, saying nothing about how hard she’s clinging to him.

At last Aeveth lets him go, asks to lean on him as she gets to her feet. She is wobbly at first, but as her heart begins pumping more strongly she is able to begin shuffling around. Aeveth thanks Thom for his help, shoos him out the door with reassurances that she will be all right. He leaves, hesitant, but she knows that the first thing he’ll do is inform Cullen -

No.

Aeveth braces herself against her desk and closes her eyes against the needling of her tears. She wants Cullen, _wants_ him in a way she cannot explain, even after what’s happened. She wants him with the fervor of her desperately, desperately aching heart. It’s a visceral, pressing need, so intense it almost chokes her. She hangs onto the desk, swaying, breathing irregularly.

“Raw.”

Aeveth jumps, swears, sees Cole standing before her. Angrily, she swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. It comes away wet. 

“Maker’s _balls_ , Cole.”

The boy shakes his head, looks genuinely contrite. “He is raw, scraped, abraded on the inside. He wants to go to you but it’s too soon, too soon. No one will let him near you.”

She sighs. “I know, Cole.”

His expression changes to one of wonderment. “You _do_.”

“Thank you for trying to help anyway.”

*** *** ***

Cullen comes to her after a time. “Inquisitor,” he says one day at the end of a war room briefing, after plans have been made for her to travel far to the west. “If I could have a moment of your time?”

“Commander,” Aeveth acknowledges him. She has been avoiding saying Cullen’s name, for fear of her emotions rising, brutal and unchecked, to her lips. She suspects he is doing the same.

Leliana and Josephine sense the change in mood, and file quietly out from the room. Cullen and Aeveth remain, staring at each other, silence stretching awkward and severe across the war table. She shifts uncomfortably. “Yes, Commander?”

“Aeveth, I…” Cullen begins. 

Something breaks between them, sudden and cracking. She isn’t sure who moves first but she is _home_ and in his embrace and his arms are so strong, so tight around her. He is whispering _forgive me, forgive me_ into her hair, over and over, and her own arms are holding onto him like she is in a storm and he is the only one who can help her weather it.

They fall against each other, hold each other up, and Aeveth cries, tells him she forgives him, begs forgiveness for herself. “I’m sorry, Cullen, I’m so sorry,” she says, sobbing, and his answering kisses against her temple, her forehead, her cheekbone, tell her that he has long ago absolved her of anything.

They hide in the war room for a while, sitting against the door, wrapped up in each other. Aeveth’s thoughts sound loud in her ears, and as she holds Cullen, hands fisted into his coat, she realizes with a painful clarity that she has fallen completely, irreversibly in love with him. Aeveth wants _him_ , and doesn’t care about his past, doesn’t care about how broken he can be or how she can fix him. She just wants Cullen - brave, sweet, tender Cullen, at once reserved and bold, with his careful dry humor and easy exasperation. 

She also knows that, at least for right now, they can’t be together.

“Will I see you when I return?” she asks him, after late afternoon sun has deepened into twilight, and all they have are each other and a moment she wishes could be frozen in time.

“I’ll be waiting,” Cullen murmurs to her. It’s a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I think I'm going to need a break! Kudos or flying objects accepted; comments give me life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFWish at the end.

Cullen has taken to writing in his spare time.

It isn’t much - a paragraph here, a scribble there, but it gathers on his desk in piles, builds on his nightstand like fallen parchment leaves. Quills lie everywhere so that they are close at hand, and the wind coming through the hole in his roof sometimes blows them onto the floor so that the shafts crack under his boots when he finally climbs up to bed.

Once a week, Cullen gathers up all his stray paper children and puts them in a stack on his desk. He lines up all the edges and the corners, sets them on the upper left hand side of his desk, pulls out several quills and a fresh bottle of the darkest ink and arranges them carefully on the right. Finally, he lays down a sheaf of paper next to his blotter and cants it at an angle.

Once a week, without fail, Cullen writes to Aeveth. He figures that once a week is often enough to be considered polite and friendly, but seldom enough to not look desperate. At least, that is his hope. Cullen knows he’s prone to over-thinking things when he’s nervous.

He pretends not to notice the glares from the rookery master when he hands his missives over. Cullen is nothing if not pragmatic and thorough, and he can burn through a murder of crows with his lengthy letters. “What in Andraste’s name are you sending her?” the master grumbles at him one day, affixing the last roll of paper to the raven Leliana gifted him.

Cullen crosses his arms over his chest. “Detailed reports.”

He’s telling the truth. Cullen finds excuses to write about anything that he thinks she’ll like. Master Dennet’s first crop of foals dropped during an early spring blizzard, naturally, but they have good chances of survival. Dagna has begun work on a new masterwork armor set, and has promised to make it a more flattering color than a dirty brown (“coat of shit,” he almost writes, pauses, then grabs a fresh sheet and jots it down, just to get it out of his system). The librarian - Cullen can’t remember his name - has secured a cache of rare books, some of them ancient and magical-looking; Cullen has had the most interesting ones sent up to her quarters.

And, buried further in the pages, Cullen writes to Aeveth about his dreams. He journals them, chronicles them, shares them with her. He writes of the horrors experienced, the sweaty, nausea-inducing anxiety. He tells her of reliving Kinloch Hold, his fear of maleficarum and of losing control, the horror in the pit of his stomach when Meredith went mad, the lyrium sword singing its demented song. These words are not the easiest to write, but Bull’s advice resonates in Cullen’s head. He grits his teeth, and leaves nothing out.

The last page of Cullen’s letters are always pleasantries (“we await your return,” “Skyhold remains well-fortified and staffed,” “Josephine thinks I secretly ate the last of her chocolates, but it was Leliana”). He signs off in the mildest ways he knows how: _sincerely, regards, I remain, as always, Maker watch over you, be well_ , and simply, _Cullen_. After he signs his name he’ll lean back in his chair, heave a large sigh, and shake out his hand.

Then he’ll sit up, hunch over, reach for another sheet of paper, and write the real last page. It’s the one he can’t send, the one he burns as soon as he’s finished writing. _Please be safe_ , he’ll start. _If you died, I’d have no choice but to walk into the Fade to be with you._

_My heart, it’s cold here without you. I cannot sleep for want of you beside me, cannot go a day without you in my thoughts._

_I love you, my dearest. Return swiftly, because I’ve run out of excuses to visit your quarters._

He’ll crumple the paper into a ball when he’s done, and toss it into the fire.

Aeveth’s responses trickle back in the form of near-daily letters. She replies to him piecemeal, between missions; he can imagine her writing in her tent, her elegant cursive with the long tails and oversized capitals aligned in straight, even rows, her margins strictly defined. He notices that her dots have a tendency to wander, and it reminds him of how, when she’s focused, everything but the job at hand falls away.

Each night Cullen lays in his bed, an arm tucked behind his head, and stares at her letters in the flickering candlelight. She can’t wait to see the foals, she tells him; she has all the faith in the world that Dagna can work miracles so that she will not look like a giant turd; what were the titles in the collection sent to her quarters?

She writes to him of her dreams, too. She will never forget about Corypheus’ hand in a vice grip around her neck; she dreams constantly that she’s falling from a tower, blighted dragonfire devouring her, crisping her skin, charring her black. Aeveth describes her dreams, her quill looping and slashing around the words, and Cullen reads them, reads them a hundred times before folding her letters carefully and storing them away.

Once, she asks him what he’d rather dream of instead of the nightmares, and Cullen has to set his quill down and walk away to prevent himself from writing _you_. Instead, he crafts a dream that won’t have him aching and hard before he can finish describing it, some calm and pleasant thing with him by the lake in summertime, bare feet in the water, laying on the bank and watching clouds drift by. He finds, to his surprise, that thinking of it after a nightmare actually helps him. He writes her immediately.

The weeks pass, turn into a month, stretch into two. Cullen keeps up his correspondence, becoming an early-morning fixture at the rookery. There is always something that keeps her from returning - rifts, ever-present, or old temples that may hold useful secrets. She assaults a keep and holds it, asks for Cullen to _please take care of it, because you know I have no head for these organizational things._ At the end of that letter, she asks him to give her love to Leliana and Josephine.

Cullen does, and the gulf between him and the other two advisors narrows significantly.

She begins to ask him for little favors. _If you could please give Varric the enclosed envelope, I would be grateful,_ she writes. _I have a funny story for Sera, do you think you could read it to her? It involves butts, lots of butts. And sand in the butts._ Sera falls off her bed laughing when she hears, and immediately makes Cullen get pen and paper so that she can scratch out a reply, squinting and swearing as she writes.

Cullen visits the library; Aeveth has sent Dorian a new focus for his staff. He goes to the tavern, consoles a distraught Iron Bull after telling him she is fighting dragons without him. Cullen feels bad for Bull, shares a drink with him, ends up staying until Cabot shows him the door. He returns the next night to hear Krem’s tales, and the night after that for an arm-wrestling competition with the Chargers.

He respectfully declines to participate in No Pants Fridays, though he recommends it, in a casual, offhand way to Josephine.

The contents of his letters change slowly from goings-on around Skyhold to interactions with friends. Cullen describes chess games with Dorian, tells her proudly how he’s improving at Wicked Grace, writes a post-script about hunting down horn balm for Bull. He expresses his disappointment when Aeveth calls for Sera and Dorian to join her, assures her that Madam Vivienne’s quarters will be impeccable when she arrives, and that he won’t touch the barrel of daggers squirreled away in Cole’s hideout. 

One week, Cullen finishes his letter, sits back, and doesn’t write the extra page. 

The next week, he skips it again.

Cullen begins closing his letters with _Yours, Cullen._

*** *** ***

Aeveth returns to Skyhold in late spring in a whirlwind of hoofbeats and sunshine, laughter and warmth. Cullen watches her approach from a crenellation above the portcullis, the sound of ringing chantry bells vibrating through the air. He feels nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to another, unsure of how he should act.

He goes down to the courtyard to greet her. “Cullen!” she exclaims when she sees him, throwing her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. Surprised, Cullen hugs her back, lowers his head to rest against her shoulder. Her alluring scent is mixed with the freshness of mountain air. Cullen breathes deep, not caring about the dust of travel or the earth tones of horse. He’s missed this.

Aeveth releases him and he lets her go reluctantly, watches her greet Leliana and Josephine, holler at Iron Bull, and wave at Vivienne, standing high above on her balcony. It’s obvious she’s glad to be home, so he hangs back, takes her horse from Master Dennet, and walks the mare over to the stable.

Blackwall is there already, rubbing his horse down. The older man glances up at him when he walks Aeveth’s mount in. “Cullen,” he says by way of acknowledgement.

“Blackwall,” Cullen replies, and the two of them fall into a silence as they brush out the horses, fetch water and soap and picks. Of all the companions it’s Blackwall he knows and trusts the least, despite the fact that of all the companions, it’s Blackwall who is always at her side.

“So, uh, dragon slaying,” he finds himself saying.

Blackwall raises an eyebrow and gives him a long, measured look. “Never felt more alive in my life,” the other man says. “Though I wish it would have been Cassandra in my place sometimes. The dragons would have fallen easier were she there.” He chuckles to himself softly, amused. “They might have surrendered out of fear. I would have, were I a dragon.”

Cullen, too, wishes Cassandra had been in Blackwall’s place. He keeps his thoughts to himself, says instead, “I dare say you have stories.”

“I do.” Blackwall lifts his horse’s forehoof to inspect it. “But I think you should ask Aeveth about them instead of avoiding her.”

Cullen’s grip tightens on the sponge, and water spills onto his boot. “I am _not_ avoiding -”

Blackwall’s laugh bursts out of him. Cullen is startled, unused to hearing such emotion from him. “Maker’s balls, Cullen, you’re hopeless. Let me take care of her horse. You go see her.” When Cullen doesn’t move, Blackwall sets his horse’s hoof down gently and comes around, standing before him. He takes the sponge from Cullen’s hands and turns him towards Skyhold’s courtyard. “You send letters, but it isn’t the same. Go _talk_ to her.” Blackwall pushes Cullen, unbalancing his equilibrium until Cullen is forced to take a step forward. “It’s long overdue.”

Cullen trudges out of the stable, his emotions roiling. He tries to go towards the Great Hall, but excuses keep piling up in his mind. She’s tired, she needs a bath, she’s talking to Varric, she’s playing the Game with the nobles gathered in the hall. He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Blackwall’s right. He’s hopeless.

His restless feet take him around Skyhold until it’s dark. He busies himself with any and all manner of mundane, small tasks, anything to keep his mind off of his feelings. But then a runner finds him in his office with a summons to the War Room, forcing his hand. Cullen goes, unable to come up with any believable way of putting it off. Finally, he thinks, he’s going to have to talk to her, figure out what the last three months have meant, see if there is still anything between them.

He shouldn’t have bothered questioning. Cullen is undone the second he steps into the War Room, stammering and unable to meet her eyes without his breath coming faster. She has changed out of her armor and is wearing a simple tunic and leggings, belted with her usual dagger. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she keeps leaning over the table, pushing it back behind one ear, tossing her head to get it out of the way. Cullen notices that it’s gotten long, reaching to the middle of her back. At this length he can see the waves in it, and they catch the candlelight in the room, reflect back highlights of gold and crimson.

Cullen wants to touch her hair, run his hands through it, feel it tangle around his fingers, feel it pull tight, _tight_ , around his fist.

It has never been so hard for Cullen to exercise his discipline and bring his focus back to the matters at hand.

The meeting is blessedly short. Cullen tries to make his escape, but Aeveth’s soft voice halts him in his tracks. “Cullen,” she says, and he stops with his hand on the door. Leliana and Josephine edge around him as he stands, frozen, in the doorway. They give him sympathetic looks as they pass by, leaving him alone with her.

“Cullen.” She comes to his side, lays a hand on his vambrace. He feels the touch as if his armor is not there, as if her hand has jolted him, skin to skin. He stares straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at her. 

“We need… we need to talk.”

He nods mutely.

“I always seem to have bad timing,” Aeveth murmurs, taking his hand. His fingers find hers, lace themselves between hers. “But I can’t think of any better time than now. If I…” Her voice grows soft, turns inwards. “If I don’t do this now, then... “

She leads him not to her quarters, but to the small library she has claimed as her own. It’s been cleaned up since the last time he’s seen it, the cobwebs all brushed away, with two freshly-upholstered armless chairs in front of the broad, polished oak desk. Aeveth lights a candelabra without a thought, a tongue of flame hovering in front of her index finger. She turns around, faces him, and with a shaky breath, leans against the desk. “Sit, Cullen. If you please.”

Cullen tries to, but his eyes meet hers and electricity sparks, flashes, torrents between them. He takes a step forward - her lips part, a gasp - and his mouth is on hers, his hands on either side of her face, thumbs at her temples, tilting her head back. She moans into his mouth, a pleading, needy sound, and any shred of resistance he might have had ignites, turns to dust.

He tears at her clothes; she fumbles with his. Their breaths are loud and sharp in the still air of the library, cutting like knives. Aeveth presses herself against him and he kisses her, devours her, inhales her into himself, re-familiarizing himself, learning her newness. The desert has changed her, tanning her skin a nut brown, burning away her softness, leaving behind lean muscle under velvety, irresistible skin. 

She moans again, clings to him, shudders when his palms touch her stomach under her clothes, pushing them up. He gets a finger into the waist of her leggings, drags them down just far enough. He feels her hands against him, pulling jerkily at the laces of his breeches, and he groans as she pushes her palms against his hardness.

“Cullen,” and her voice is low and chesty, pressing out of her with her desire. She yanks his breeches down. “Cullen, what are we doing, what are we _doing?"_

“I don’t know,” he growls into her ear. It’s too late, he’s too far gone. He can’t think about anything but her, about being inside her, about slaking his passion in her. He is being consumed by his need. 

”I don’t know, _I don’t know.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cullen, stop bb
> 
> cullen NO
> 
> (Please feel free to talk at the characters in the comments - I love comments, please comment! Anything makes me happy.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm.

It was not meant to be this way.

Aeveth stalks the halls, her face a thunderhead. It was not meant to be this way, she thinks, and anyone who catches a glimpse of her scuttles quickly out of her path. It was not meant to be this way, and Aeveth is _furious_ , furious and ashamed of herself, for giving in to temptation.

She punches open the door to her quarters and kicks it shut, the slam echoing through the Great Hall. It was not meant to be this way, but she is still slick and stretched and _satisfied_ , and her smallclothes are sticky and wet. It was not meant to be this way, but she smells of sex and Cullen, can still feel his heat inside her, can feel the places on her skin where he’s marked her.

Aeveth throws open the double doors to the balcony, stomps to the railing, summons her magic and a breath. She screams her rage into the night, fire erupting in jets around her.

Her hands clenched into fists, Aeveth snarls, smoke issuing from between her gritted teeth.

It was not meant to be this way. She was supposed to tell him everything, confess she still had feelings for him, admit that she has kept every single page of his ridiculously, adorably long letters. She had wanted to say to him, that maddening bastard, that she was ready to accept him, consequences and all, if he would have her.

All for nothing. Aeveth closes her eyes and leans against the stone railing, anger gone, heart aching. Cullen had made it clear what kind of relationship he was interested in having, and she was a fool for thinking otherwise. A stupid, idiotic, lovestruck little fool of a girl, who thought there had been hidden intent behind the deliberately friendly words, something missing that he had wanted to send but didn’t.

She supposes Cullen has done some figuring out of his own. She goes inside, closing the doors quietly behind her. Aeveth’s heartache is chalky and bitter on her tongue, her despair a millstone on her chest. As she passes the mantel her knees buckle. She grabs onto it, holds on and inhales raggedly, hangs on as if her life depends on it.

When Aeveth has control of herself again, she straightens. Eyes forward, move ahead. One thing at a time. She needs to get cleaned up and changed.

Aeveth goes to the bathroom, heats the water in the washbasin to boiling. She strips methodically, kicks her dagger aside when it falls to the floor, pulls off boots and leggings and tunic and stops herself short from incinerating them.

She takes off her smallclothes gingerly, lights them on fire, and drops them in the bathtub.

Aeveth scalds her fingers when she dips a washcloth into the basin, but she sets her jaw, breathes through her nose, and endures the pain. She wants to _burn_ now, wants the searing heat of the water to cleanse her of her shame, purify her of her transgression. She wipes herself down, curses herself for making even the slightest noise when the steaming, unbearably hot water touches her, dumps cloth and water into the tub when she’s done, pours fire into it until the water sizzles away and the cloth turns to ash.

Afterwards, she dresses herself, wincing at the frostfire bite of blistered skin. She goes to the armchair in front of the fireplace and sits in it, starts the fire, stares into the flames, and tries not to think about anything.

*** *** ***

She comes back to herself some time later. The fire has gone out, leaving only dark red embers, and Aeveth realizes that she has lost minutes, lost hours, just sitting in the chair. She cannot tell if she’s slept, but thinks she might have. She rises, muscles and bones stiff. She needs some strong tea.

Aeveth’s breath stops when she sees the figure seated in her desk chair. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest, and her feet are frozen to the ground as if spelled. She feels a chill ripple up her spine, culminating in her throat. 

“What...what are you doing here?” she asks Cullen haltingly, her voice pitched low so that he cannot hear the tremble in it. She has nothing more to give to him, nothing that he’s interested in.

He stands up, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor, approaches her slowly, takes her hands in his. “I’m apologizing for being the most worthless, senseless man in all Thedas,” he says, his voice soft.

She stares at him, eyes wide, unable to breathe properly. Aeveth struggles to draw in air; she feels faint.

“You wanted to talk,” Cullen continues, “and instead I, being the simple-minded cretin that I am, wronged you in the worst way possible. For that I beg your forgiveness.” His golden eyes are on hers, unwavering. “I did not think… I do not think that I deserve you. You are everything I have ever…You are so strong, and fierce, and your heart is so giving. It feels that I am always wounding you. Yet you came back - you come back for me.” Cullen pauses, his eyes suddenly bright. “I do not know what it is you see in me that makes me worthy of your attention. And your attention is the only thing worth having. I have… never, _never_ felt anything like what I feel for you.” He squeezes her hands gently. “If by some miracle you still want to have me in your life, I will do my very best to keep your regard. And if... if you do not want me, then I shall keep a respectful distance, serve you as Commander to the best of my ability, and hope we can be friends.”

Aeveth realizes she is crying, has been crying, hot tears slipping down her cheeks and falling to the floor. Cullen is offering everything and nothing, and she hungers for it. Her heart is longing for him; her heart is shattering itself in its want for him. It throws itself against the protective cage of her chest, beats frantically against it, yearns for Cullen so madly that she can taste its salty bite, hear the buzz of it in her ears.

But as heartfelt as his words are, Aeveth cannot how forget how deeply she has been cut.

“Cullen.” Aeveth blinks hard, clearing her eyes of tears, but more well up to take their place. She is shaking, quivering from head to toe. Her words are stop-start, stumbling, broken by her desperate need for air. “I wanted to tell you earlier about my feelings for you,” she murmurs. Her voice strengthens after a moment. “I love you in a way I can’t explain. You, I love _you_ , and all the parts of you that you try to hide from me because you’re ashamed.” She closes her eyes, trembles, opens them again to see Cullen’s face, hope and fear writ plain on his features. “I wanted you to accept me as I am, and everything that I am not. I’m not the paragon you want me to be. I’m broken, like you. And human. And as much as I would like to say yes to what we both want…” Aeveth forces herself to look Cullen in the eye.

It’s the hardest thing she thinks she’s ever done.

“...I think that we should be friends first, before anything else.”

It’s Cullen’s turn to freeze. “Friends?” he whispers, and she can feel herself fracturing, splintering all the way to her soul.

She nods. “Friends. Can we ever…?”

Cullen’s hands tighten on hers; Aeveth gasps as her burned fingers protest. He lets go of her swiftly, not knowing she’s hurt. “Yes,” he says, hushed. “Yes, we can.” He puts a hand to his face, rubs his eyes, gathers himself. “By your leave.”

Aeveth watches him go, listens for the sound of the door shutting, waits a hundred heartbeats. Then she flings herself onto her wide, empty bed, and cries until sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my world go 'round - I truly mean it, they keep me going, they keep me motivated to write. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Of course, the usual rotten fruit is also accepted.


	10. Chapter 10

It is a funny thing, Cullen learns, to try to be friends with someone who has been a lover and would, by her admission, still be if she could. 

And by funny, Cullen means _damned frustrating._ In every sense of the word.

They cut off contact with each other outside of what is demanded by the Inquisition. Gone are the casual touches: the brush of his fingertips over her arm, standing hip to hip next to her, the easy familiarity of embracing her. Gone are the long looks and little smiles, the almost shy way she tucks her hair behind her ear and glances up at him. 

“Some breathing room is good for you two,” Iron Bull tells him after a week of watching Cullen winding himself tighter and tighter.

“Bull, it’s _so hard_ ,” Cullen groans, putting a hand on his face.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Bull says, laughing, giving Cullen’s crotch a pointed look, and despite himself, Cullen laughs too.

Later that night he is unbearably hard, and it’s much less amusing. Cullen muffles his yell of discomfort into his pillow, puts it over his head, and tries to sleep. He prays for the night’s pleasant chill to turn icy cold, but wakes the next morning, sheets soaked with sweat, in the same condition. He punches the mattress as he gets out of bed, tries to think of unpleasant things, like the creepy little hands on nugs, or the bog unicorn stabled by itself in the far end of the barn. The trip down the ladder is an uncomfortable one.

“You just need to hit things really hard until you’re too tired to do anything but sleep,” Bull advises him that night. The rest of the Chargers nod their agreement. “Why don’t you join us for our training exercises?”

Cullen is about to decline, but Iron Bull beats him to it. “You need your cork popped, but you won’t let anyone do it. This is the next best thing. Tomorrow morning, when the sun clears the battlements. Training ring. See you there, Commander.”

He shows up the next morning, and the Chargers give him a thorough workout. Bull sends them against him one, two, three at a time, and by the end Cullen’s gathered an admiring crowd, Dorian foremost among them. Cullen pulls his shield off his left arm, wipes his forehead on his sleeve, accepts compliments, and narrows his eyes at Dorian when the Tevinter mage grins lewdly at him.

Cullen wakes up bruised and sore but normal the next morning. He decides to train with the Chargers again, and again the morning after that. Blackwall joins them after a time, then Dorian, and soon enough the daily melee is drawing a crowd of soldiers, each wanting their turn in the ring. Cullen stands back to back with Blackwall in the center of a mass of soldiers, and he finally understands why Aeveth has put so much trust in the warrior.

Cullen continues to play chess with Dorian. He sets up a public board by the merchant stands, and sometimes during breaks he will go down and watch the games, giving advice. Leliana, he discovers, is a serial cheater; Vivienne loves power plays after many turns of setup. Cullen plays against Iron Bull, who impresses him with an epic tale of a days-long mental game played with Solas. 

Sera likes to hollow out the pieces and unbalance them so that the knight always falls onto his face.

Josephine continues to best him in Wicked Grace, but Cullen is able to retain most of his clothing. He finds time to listen to Varric and Blackwall wax poetic about tourneys, Cole beside him, face rapt with attention, seeing the visions Cullen cannot. In only moments Cole is arguing like an old hand.

He pens a short letter to his sister, assuring her all is well.

He writes to Cassandra with some questions.

Slowly, Cullen’s orbit around Aeveth grows wider.

*** *** ***

Summer comes and Skyhold blooms, bursting exuberantly into green. Morning glories scent the air as Cullen leaves his office for his first meeting; the smell of evening primrose wafts to him as he leaves the Great Hall at night. The Inquisition’s tasks grow less pressing, and Cullen can often be found in the tavern after hours, reading reports over a flagon of ale, enjoying the company of friends.

Aeveth comes and goes, and Cullen finds it easier to speak to her outside of his duties. A greeting here, a pleasantry there, and one day she surprises him by asking him to join her for the midday meal. Cullen agrees warily, but she is good company, and when she asks him if they can dine again, he says yes. They begin to dine together every day, and sometimes friends will join them, like Sera who blows raspberries at them for most of the meal, or Blackwall, whom Cullen has grown to like, despite his misgivings. On the days that both Sera and Blackwall are present, Cullen laughs so much that he hardly gets a bite in before it’s time to return to work.

The days grow longer, the sunlight pouring over the stone walls of the keep. Midsummer approaches, and Cullen sees Aeveth growing quieter and farther away during lunch. She is so masterful at finding the right people to join them, however, that he doesn’t get to address it. Bit by bit, he hears snippets of conversations around the commons: the Inquisitor has barred servants from going to her chambers, the Inquisitor has been seen wandering around Skyhold in the dead of night. The Inquisitor has taken over one of the rooms in the mage tower, the Inquisitor leaves Skyhold for hours a day.

Cullen arrives early for their meal, confronts her when she arrives. It’s a shock when he truly sees her: her skin has lost all of its color from the desert, and she’s pale and drawn, with shadows under her eyes. Her hair, still uncut, is tied in a low, listless mare’s tail, and she has belted her tunic as far as her dagger will allow.

Alarmed, Cullen asks, “Aeveth, are you all right?”

She blinks at him, the dark smudges around her brown eyes making them look sunken. “Yes Cullen, why do you ask?”

“You don’t seem all right.” He pulls out a chair for her and she sits, sighing quietly. “Look at me, Aeveth.”

She twists her fingers together and doesn’t. “Really Cullen, I’m all right. Just… tired.”

“Are you having dreams again?” He hasn’t had one in weeks, the longest stretch he can remember.

She looks away from him, down the hall. “Vivienne!” Aeveth exclaims, and stands up. 

“Darling!” the First Enchanter returns, smiling. Aeveth strikes up a conversation immediately. 

Cullen frowns.

He begins to observe her movements. In the morning, Aeveth shows up to the War Room for their daily meeting. Cullen takes note of how frail she looks, how thin she is, how questions have to be repeated twice or even three times before she can answer them. She shakes off her advisors’ concerns, citing deep thinking and exhaustion.

Her companions are as puzzled as he. They note her behavior: she rides out from Skyhold in the morning and disappears for a few hours, and spends much of her time in the mage tower, researching. “Deathroot, rashvine nettle, elfroot,” Cole says, appearing next to Cullen in his office, making him jump and clutch his chest.

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen gasps. “Cole, what do we keep telling you about doing that?”

“Deathroot, rashvine nettle… no, perhaps it’s elfroot. Or embrium?” Cole sounds dreamy, and Cullen realizes he’s vocalizing someone’s thoughts. “Have to get the right combination. Rashvine nettle stings the eyes but the steam is numbing to the lungs. Stay and concentrate, but so, so tired. Three drops, not two.”

“Who is it, Cole?” Cullen asks.

“The tower,” the boy replies. “Her room in the tower. Clouded with fumes, littered with books. Trying and failing, finding the solution. She wants to help. I want to help. I’m helping.” Cole’s eyes meet his. “I’m helping.”

Cullen drops his quill and runs for the mage tower.

He finds Aeveth unhurt when he arrives. She is kneeling on the floor next to the doorway of her laboratory, holding a glass of water to another mage’s lips. He coughs as the water hits his throat, chokes a little, but at a low, soothing word from Aeveth, calms down and drinks. She stays with him for a moment, left hand on his brow. Cullen watches the mage visibly relax, body slumping against the wall. Aeveth turns and beckons over another mage, gives her quiet instructions.

She straightens, holding the top of the glass with the tips of her fingers. The water catches the sunlight coming in from a window, scatters it into rainbows. “What are you doing here, Cullen?” she asks coolly.

Cullen realizes what a loud and awkward entrance he must have made. He scratches the back of his head, looks up and to the side. “I, uh… Cole came to me, and said there was something amiss in the mage tower, and um… said something about rashvine nettle and helping.”

“Did he.” Aeveth’s eyes narrow. “I really need to have a talk with him about his helping.”

“No, he meant well,” Cullen says in Cole’s defense. “We’ve all been worried about you, and he thought you were in trouble, so…”

She frowns at him. “I’m just fine, as you can see.”

Cullen sighs. “So you are.”

He follows her out of the tower and back into the courtyard. She walks ahead of him, her stride brisk. Her words come back to him on the wind. “You’re worried about me?”

He hurries a step, catches up with her. “We all are.” Cullen tries to make eye contact, but she steadfastly refuses. “You haven’t spoken a word to anyone about what you’re doing in the mage tower, nor why you ride off by yourself every day.”

Aeveth’s brow furrows in an expression of confusion. “You want to know where I go every day? That’s the most pressing concern you have?”

“Well, no,” Cullen stammers, and he puts his hand to his face, exasperated. “I’m worried about your health. You’ve been looking....unwell.”

She stops short and heaves a sigh. Cullen turns his head, looking down at her. Their eyes meet, and Cullen is struck by the weariness he finds in their depths. “You’re right,” she says quietly, then turns her gaze to the ground. “I’ve been… well, why don’t you come with me? I’ll just show you what I’ve been up to.”

She leads. Cullen follows, not saying a word.

*** *** ***

She takes him half a bell outside Skyhold to a hidden plain of grass, the flatness broken by a single tree on which is strung a hammock. Tall, beautiful flowers grow thickly all around, sprouting from the ground in crimson clusters and clumps, filling the air with their calming, gentle scent. Aeveth’s face grows less drawn when she nears; her body relaxes, eases in its movement, and a light returns to her eyes.

Cullen knows without being told that he is in a place of healing.

Embrium scent has healing properties, she explains to him, folding herself into a sitting position amongst the flowers. She tells him the tale of the girl stricken with lung sickness, her warm, melodious voice flowing over him. Cullen finds himself sitting in the hammock, booted toes in the dirt, pushing himself gently back and forth under the tree, soothed by the scent of orchids.

“It’s taken me months,” Aeveth says, “Months and months. To build this place.” She closes her eyes, takes another deep breath, falls backwards into the flowers. “I’ve poured more magic into this place than should be humanly possible. But now it’s done. And you’re the first one to see it.” A pause. Then, softly, “The only one to see it, if I have my way.”

Cullen, humbled, is at a loss for words. “Thank you,” he says, the only thing he can think of.

Aeveth lays quiet for a while, so quiet that Cullen suspects she’s fallen asleep. He gets up from the hammock, trying not to let his boots scuffle too loudly, and goes to check on her.

She isn’t asleep. Instead, she’s staring up at the sky, silent tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, running past her temples, soaking into the grass. “Oh,” Cullen says, then, “oh, _Aeveth_ ,” and he is kneeling next to her, his thumb wiping her tears away.

She blinks slowly at him, sniffles. “I’ve been having dreams again,” she whispers, and Cullen’s heart goes out to her. “I wake up and it’s like I never slept. I’m having trouble remembering things. Remembering why I do this.” She bites her lip and looks aside, and Cullen’s hands tighten into fists, clench because that’s how his chest feels right now, tight and hurting just knowing she hasn’t been able to share her pain with anyone.

Cullen’s voice is hoarse when he finally responds. “You do this because you’re the kindest person I know.”

Her eyes fill with tears again, and Cullen’s heart aches. Somehow, he’s said the wrong thing. He tries something practical instead, something he can understand. “Can you rest here? You need sleep.”

“Yes.” She sighs it out, a puff of air.

Cullen stands. “Sleep, then.”

Her eyes close, and she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love, and I'll love you forever if you share your thoughts. <3


	11. Chapter 11

For the first time in a long time, Aeveth wakes, and feels restored. She stretches, flowers and grass rustling around her, sun-warmed clothes a balm to her sore muscles. She stretches again, sees the expanse of blue sky above her, smells the aroma of embrium in the air, and smiles.

She gets up, mindful not to crush any more flowers. The blooms that are mostly undamaged she picks for herself; the ones she has hopelessly flattened she leaves alone. Tomorrow she’ll come back with seeds, pull up what’s been lost, and plant anew. Flowers in hand, she turns, looking for Cullen.

Aeveth finds him asleep in the hammock, hands folded over his stomach, one leg hanging down. She watches him, a little smile playing around her lips. Cullen looks younger here, she thinks, younger and more at peace. If she uses just a bit of imagination, she can see back in time, know what he looked like as a youth, as a boy.

Reaching out, she takes a gentle hold of Cullen’s shoulder, shakes it lightly. “Cullen.”

A long inhale, a rise of his chest. Cullen’s eyes open, warm amber in the afternoon light. He smiles when he sees her. “Aeveth. Did you sleep well?”

She nods. “And you?”

Cullen closes his eyes again. “Yes, and I wish that I could go back to sleep, ignore my work, and spend my nights here.” He looks at her, and there’s that smile again, that slight, lopsided, tender thing. “You’ve done well.”

“Thank you.” There’s a long moment when neither of them says anything, and Aeveth feels heat blooming in her cheeks. She is the first to break eye contact out of embarrassment. The way Cullen is looking at her feels uncomfortably close to judgment after her earlier confession. “I, uh… we should return to Skyhold.”

Cullen heaves a sigh, leans over to the side to get his foot on the ground. Without thinking, Aeveth offers him her hand, which he takes. Muscles bunch as he pulls himself to standing; he stretches, bending backward. When he stands straight again, he raises an eyebrow at what she’s holding. “Flowers for me?” Cullen says, lighthearted. “You didn’t have to.”

"Who says they're for you?" Aeveth replies, teasing. "But if you ask nicely, I can give you one."

"Please?" Cullen gives her his most earnest look. "I'd like one to remember this place."

She hands one of the flowers to him, holding the long stalk by the bottom so that she cannot accidentally touch his skin. "Well, now that you know where it is..." 

She isn't sure where she's going with this.

Cullen shakes his head. "This sanctuary is all you. Your hands shaped it, your magic made it. I would not presume to come here without your permission."

Aeveth bows her head, closing her eyes briefly. "Thank you, Cullen. Truly."

They take their time riding back to Skyhold. Aeveth plaits the embrium into a small circlet and lays it over her horse's ears before giggling at the sight and crowning herself. She pulls the leather thong out of her hair, shaking out its length, wincing as she sees the ends, split and dry. She should have cut her hair weeks ago, but she hasn’t been able to care enough to do it. The embrium has helped clear some of the fog from her mind, fog she didn't realize had sunk so deeply. She can't remember what she did this morning, and it troubles her.

She distracts herself by braiding the crown into her hair, letting her horse follow Cullen's as she parts strands and finger-combs them into a semblance of obedience. It has been almost two decades since she last did this, and her fingers recall the movements with difficulty at first, gaining confidence as they go. She makes mistakes, and undoes them, makes them again, but by the time they have reached Skyhold's bridge, the crown sits firmly atop her head.

Cullen glances back at her, looks forward, then whips himself back around, twisting in his saddle. He stares at her and it feels like a blanket of nettles; his expression is unreadable. Aeveth's cheeks blaze again, and self-consciously, she puts a hand to her head, touching the soft petals of the orchids. "You're right, it's foolish," she says, and begins to unravel the thick braid laying over her neck, down past her right shoulder.

"No, stop," he says suddenly, halting his horse, letting hers come alongside. Her fingers freeze in place. "You're..." He struggles to find a word.

Aeveth supplies a few. "Silly? Ridiculous? Too old for this?"

"Regal," Cullen says, hushed, then more firmly, "Regal. A flower queen. Who needs a scepter." He hands over his stalk of embrium.

"But -" Aeveth protests.

"I'll pick one from the garden." He gives her a wide smile, bows slightly, sweeps an arm towards Skyhold’s gate. "My queen, your keep awaits."

Aeveth, unsure, plays along. "Lead the way, good ser."

They ride under the portcullis, a golden commander, a ruby queen.

*** *** ***

Aeveth keeps the crown on and her hair braided. She walks a route around Skyhold, looks into the garden, checks back into the mage tower to see how much damage her experiment has done. She drops by to see Fiona when she’s finished, inquires after any necessary materials.

The list is brief, and they turn to chitchat. “A crown, your Worship?” asks Fiona.

Aeveth touches the flowers, now wilted. “Not precisely. At least, I hope not! Just a bit of girlish indulgence, is all.”

Fiona smiles fondly at her, reaching up to brush a finger against the blossoms. “Girlish indulgence or no, they suit you. Strength, beauty, passion… in Orlais, the man who gave a thing such as this would have deep feelings, indeed.”

Aeveth laughs. “It’s a good thing we aren’t in Orlais! I gave these to myself. Don’t tell Dorian that I regard myself this highly. He would have to up the ante, and then he’d be insufferable.”

She leaves the tower, her heart a little lighter, and goes to the tavern.

“A vision!” Dorian cries out when she opens the door. He stands and comes to her, enfolding her in a warm hug. Aeveth hugs him back, closing her eyes and leaning her head against his shoulder. “We’ve missed you, my dear. You look lovely, if thin. Have you eaten? Cabot has produced something deserving of being called food today, and you should have some before Bull takes it all.”

Dorian fairly drags her to the long trestle table, seats her between Bull’s comfortable warmth and Thom’s steady strength. In a flash Dorian has a meal laid out for her, and Varric deals her into the game of Diamondback already in progress.

Bull slings a giant arm around her, pulls her close for a quick, fierce kiss on the top of her head. "Welcome back, boss."

"It's good to be back, Bull."

“Hit me!” Sera declares, slapping the table.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , Sera, that’s already more than twenty-one.” Dorian shakes his head.

Aeveth grins and lets herself get swept up in the evening. She lets her mind rest from thoughts of old tomes and formulas, distilling techniques and dosages, effects and side effects. She sits and eats, plays and chats, laughs hard at Cullen’s hilarious, snorting snicker. She tries to fit herself in like she never left. 

She tries not to cry over how wonderful her friends are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my humble attempt at fluff.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated and go a long way in helping me write the next bit!


	12. Chapter 12

“Have you seen that Quizquisitor fellow around Skyhold?”

“What?” Cullen sets his nightly beer down and looks at her, perplexed. “The Quizquisitor?”

Aeveth smiles, brown eyes lighting up with humor, and tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s freshly shorn, now falling to her shoulders instead of most of the way down her back. The wave in it has somehow been enhanced, making it look perfectly tousled. Touchably tousled, Cullen thinks, and Aeveth must feel the same way, because she is constantly taking it and smoothing it back behind her ear.

Cullen finds this adorable.

“Yes, the Quizquisitor,” Aeveth says. “He just… shows up. I’ve seen him here in the tavern on the top floor. The other day, he was in my quarters. Right by the wine barrels! How’d he get there?” Her forehead crinkles in puzzlement. “And when I asked him, he told me there was a timer, and asked me a question about who wrote the Qun.”

“Did you answer correctly?”

She gives him a flat look. “Of course I did. ‘Corrrrrect,’ he says,” and she rolls her r in an exaggerated fashion. “Then, this is the strangest bit, he says that the wind is calling him, and makes these whooshing noises, like _ssshhhhhhhh, sshhhhhsshhhhhhh_.” She giggles. “Whoooooooosh! I waited for him to disappear, but he just stood and made wind noises until I left.”

Cullen stares at her, dumbfounded. “He was in your _quarters?_ Do I need to post guards?”

“No. He’s an odd bird, but I think he’s harmless.” She looks thoughtful. “Though perhaps I should have the locks changed. I...I don’t want…” Her voice drifts off, suddenly serious.

“You don’t want deviants with free rein wandering Skyhold? What an utter surprise. Neither do I.” Cullen makes a mental note to have a chat with the guard captain over his lack of oversight. “I will have the locks on the door changed as well. When did this happen?”

“Oh…” Aeveth thinks for a while. “Perhaps a few days ago? I’m not sure, exactly. My memory has been off lately.” She smiles ruefully, pats the thick book on the table in front of her. It’s open, and Cullen can see what he thinks are alchemical formulas. “Too much time spent with my nose in this, I’m afraid.”

“Better you than me. I can’t make heads nor tails of your pleasure reading.” He leans over to peer at it. “And it’s in a language I cannot understand. You never do anything by halves, do you? Can’t you read Cassandra’s smutty literature like everyone else?” A beat. “Please do. She’s still pressuring me to read it.”

She gives him an apologetic half-smile. “No, I can’t say that I do. As for _Swords and Shields,_ I’ve already read it. Multiple times over. I can see why she likes it.” She sighs wistfully. “Varric has _quite_ the imagination. Master Tethras, you _rogue_.” Aeveth giggles and puts a hand to her mouth.

Cullen sits and marinates sourly in the thought of Varric being surrounded by ardent female fans, Aeveth and Cassandra among them.

“By the by, do you know who wrote the Qun?”

“I honestly cannot recall.”

“You’d know if you spent more time talking to Iron Bull instead of hitting him with metal objects. It’s Koslun.” Aeveth looks at him, eyes open wide, wiggles her fingers in the air. Her voice drops, becomes nasal; her accent changes. “I must go. The wind… is calling me. _Whooossshhhhhhhhhh_.”

Cullen snickers.

*** *** ***

She is healing.

It’s a slow process, and Cullen knows that it’s far from complete, but Aeveth is healing. Her face loses its gauntness, and her clothes no longer look as if they are hanging off her body. She spends more time with friends in the tavern, telling jokes, describing experiments often gone horribly, hilariously wrong, like the time she lost track of how much blood lotus was supposed to go into her potion and the fumes made the entire tower hallucinate rainbow nuggalopes.

She is healing, and Cullen hopes he’s helping.

Whenever Aeveth is in Skyhold, which is more and more often, the two of them will set aside a couple of hours in the late morning, and ride out to her sanctuary. It’s become a ritual now: they open the day with the War Table, then split up, Aeveth to her laboratory, Cullen to the practice ring. When he’s finished he’ll clean up and change, then go to the stables where Aeveth will be waiting for him, horses saddled, bags packed with refreshments and work.

They will ride to the sanctuary, a masking spell laid behind them, turn the horses out, and settle into the greenery. They chat about work, at times; Cullen has begun to teach her the rudiments of strategy, and Aeveth schools him in the finer points of the Grand Game. They debate history, discuss conflicts, discover the joy in engaging one another’s minds. Sometimes Aeveth will read in the hammock; sometimes she’ll sprawl amongst the flowers for a nap, a beatific smile on her sleeping face. It’s those times when Cullen has to look away, putting a hand to his chest to steady his breathing. The sanctuary calms him, but his heart is never truly at ease around her so long as they remain friends.

Friends. He’s tried to put his feelings aside, but Cullen knows he is still deeply in love with her, perhaps more now than ever. The last few months have given him a view of her without the danger of Corypheus lurking over her shoulder, and Cullen finds her braver, kinder, and stronger than before. When he looks at her he sees someone who never complains about her burden, who gives constantly and never expects to receive. He sees someone who keeps going, a flawed person who tries to overcome herself. She _tries_ , and Cullen loves her for it.

Cullen wants Aeveth to be happy.

He wants to be the one to make her happy.

He isn’t sure if he _can_ make her happy.

He groans quietly, turns it into a cough as Aeveth’s eyes flick over to him. When they return to her book, he takes in a long breath through his nose. Cullen is uncertain if Aeveth wants anything to do with him romantically, not with their history of hurting each other. Not for the first time, he regrets his actions, kicks himself for being a callous idiot.

Her voice breaks him from his thoughts. “Cullen?”

“Hmm?”

Aeveth’s words come out haltingly, as if she is forming each one and pushing them, flapping and protesting like fledglings, from the nest. “Do you… this may be a strange question but… do you ever wonder why… you’re the only one?”

Cullen’s chest tightens. He knows exactly what she means. This is a part of her that he is all too familiar with: the two of them share the same kind of hurt, the same kind of guilt. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I did, and I do. It’s better now, but I used to ask myself all the time.”

He watches her close her eyes. When they open, they are clouded with pain and fear. “Cullen,” she says in a whisper, “I...I don’t think it’s getting better for me.”

He swallows, a lump rising in his throat. Cullen knows suddenly, instinctively, that this is the center of all her troubles, the thing that plagues her, causes everything else to cascade out of control. Before he knows it he is up, striding over to her, arms open. Aeveth flings herself at him, holding him tightly, burying her face against his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, and he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing her pain, holding it in him. “I’m so sorry. It gets better. I promise, it does. I _promise._ It just takes time.”

“I wish it wouldn’t take its time,” she says, and Cullen can hear her trying not to cry. “I wish I didn’t have to endure it. I’m _tired_ , Cullen. I don’t know why I keep going. I don’t know why I’m here and they’re not, I don’t know why I have to keep sending people to die on my behalf.” Her voice wavers, cracks. “I just… I just want to sleep, Cullen, and not dream.”

Cullen bites his tongue, holds back the words he wants to say, excises _love, my darling, dearest_ from his vocabulary. “You endure because you’re stronger than all of us,” he murmurs to her, pulling away slightly to see her. He cups her cheek with a hand, erases the tracks of her tears with his thumb. “You dream because you care so deeply, and what has marked you only makes you better. It makes you _better_ , do you understand?” He rests his forehead against hers, looks into her eyes. “If none of this ever bothered you, I wouldn’t be -”

He stops himself.

“Be what, Cullen?” she asks him, her breath warm on his lips.

“Be your _friend_ ,” he says, a little too vehemently.

“Oh,” she says. “Thank you.” Aeveth steps back, freeing herself from him. He can see her wrestling for composure, for a mask under which to hide. “We, um...it’s getting late. We should return before sundown.” She swipes her arm across her eyes, takes a deep, shaky breath.

Cullen nods. If he opens his mouth, he will say something he cannot take back.

After a long moment, he says, “You’re right, of course. I’ll...fetch the horses.”

They mount up, silent, the wind carrying the scent of flowers around them. They turn for Skyhold, lit aflame in the distance by the sunset. Aeveth doesn’t speak, and keeps her eyes on the road ahead.

Cullen resists the urge to hold her hand the entire ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the mana on which I thrive, please leave me some! <3 I won't bite.


	13. Chapter 13

_Deathroot, rashvine nettle, elfroot. Deathroot, rashvine nettle, blood lotus. Elfroot, rashvine, spindleweed? Rashvine nettle, lyrium dust, deep mushroom, deathroot. Deathroot, lyrium dust, deep mushroom, dragonthorn._

_Deathroot, 3 parts, extracted. Lyrium dust, 1 part, in a suspension of dragonthorn essence. Deep mushroom, 2 parts, ground and dehydrated. Rashvine nettle, 4 parts, nettles only, boiled in water until soft, then distilled for concentration._

Aeveth’s eyes open, staring into the dark.

She is alert, awake with the knowledge that there will be no more sleep for her tonight. Even though she is tired in body and soul, no matter how long she lies in bed, rest will elude her. So she pushes the covers off, gets her stiff body into a sitting position with legs dangling over the side of the bed. She braces herself on both hands, arms locked, head hanging down, breathing through her shakes. When they’re over, she struggles to her feet, hand gripping the corner of the nightstand.

There’s a fat candle, or what’s left of one, on the stand. Aeveth reaches for the Fade, imagines the candle lit, and it sputters into existence, crackling and sparking as it begins to melt the wax. The small light reveals a stalk of embrium, long wilted and dead, leaning dry and brittle against the small mouth of a vial that serves as a vase, thick, cloudy water at the bottom.

She gets dressed, pulling on a light woolen tunic and some leggings. She laces on a jerkin to ward off the early fall chill, slips sockless feet into her boots. There’s a harvest moon hanging low over the mountaintops, the orange glow of it shining through the smoky glass of her balcony doors. It will illuminate her as she walks the battlements, but at this time of night she will only have guards to contend with.

She blows out the candle and picks her way towards the stairs leading to the door, avoiding the crack in the stones where a lightning bolt grounded itself, the crumbled remains of a tile where ice grew and shattered. She descends on light feet, boots a gentle patter against the wooden stairs. Aeveth then opens her door just enough to let herself through, slipping out like a wraith, pulling it shut after her.

The Great Hall is silent, torches low. Aeveth strides past the long tables, goes through a side door, climbs stairs, emerges on the battlements. The mage tower lies past the garden and the chantry, the windows shuttered and dark. Below her, past the red tiled roof of the cloister, all is still.

“Who goes there?” A voice, female, demanding.

Aeveth steps into the yellow moonlight.

“Your Worship!” the guard exclaims. “What -”

Aeveth puts a finger to her lips, makes a shushing sound. “Our little secret,” she says with a wink and a smile. “Pretend I wasn’t here. I’m just getting a bit of extra work done. As you were.”

“Yes, your Worship,” the guard says, saluting crisply.

She arrives at the mage tower without any more trouble, enters quickly, climbs the flights of stairs to her laboratory. Without preamble she lights candles and sconces, pulls out a thick, heavy tome, opens to a bookmarked page. Aeveth scans the archaic script, rereads the formula for the thousandth time. The book is old and musty, and a water stain obscures much of the information needed for the potion.

But she’s got it figured out. It’s taken her almost half a year and many hundreds of experiments, but she finally has the formula in all its correct ingredients and proportions. With a little thrill of excitement Aeveth begins preparations, pulling glass vials and pans off shelves, putting on gloves.

She works until the sky begins to lighten and birds begin to sing. With a sigh she halts her activities, stores things away, stoppers vials and douses flames. When she leaves the tower she sees that the sun is rising, staining the clouds a foreboding red, making them look like drops of blood dispersing in water.

Aeveth pauses, and shivers.

*** *** ***

The blow, when it comes, is sudden and terrible, leaving her reeling, dizzy with the force of it.

It’s morning, a quarter past the ninth bell. Aeveth is in her daily War Table meeting, bleary-eyed, an oversteeped mug of tea by her left hand. Her advisors are clustered around the table in their normal positons: Leliana, behind the skull; Cullen, directly across from her; Josephine, by the small chest to the right. All three are doing their best not to look at her as she stands, hands pressed flat against the wood of the table, head bowed, hair hanging.

She’s shaking. Everything is shaking. Her knees are barely able to hold her up; her elbows, locked so that she will not fall down, threaten to fail anyway. She is shaking; the moment is etching itself indelibly into her memory so that later she will be able to recall it with perfect clarity. Under her palms, she feels the grain of the wood, the whorl of rings, smooth with varnish. The sunlight is slanting in at an angle, catching glimmering dust motes in the air. The ever-present draft in the room carries with it a hint of wood smoke, and the bitter aftertaste of her tea, unsweetened, coats her tongue.

Her mouth is open, and her harsh breathing fills up the space, drives the silence out.

"All of them?" she asks. Her voice is very tiny.

“All of them, Inquisitor,” Leliana replies, “Lieutenant Cloche-Sec included.”

Aeveth has no idea how Leliana can be so icy when delivering news this shocking. The Grey Wardens are dead, all dead, and it’s Aeveth’s fault. They are dead to a man, all because Aeveth miscalculated, took a misstep on the very last mission, sent Leliana instead of Josephine or Cullen to take care of things. They are all dead, and their broken bodies and restless souls are laid out at Aeveth’s feet, the latest casualties in a war that should have ended months ago.

The Wardens are laid out at her feet, but beneath her there is already a great pile, a pyre, a pyramid of the dead. She stands upon the bodies from the Conclave, from Haven, from Adamant. She stands upon the bodies of the couple in the snow a mile from Skyhold, who might not have died if only she’d ridden back ten minutes earlier.

Her eyes are burning with tears, but Aeveth won’t let them fall. No, she cannot afford to make any mistakes like this again. She must be hard now, hard and unyielding, the way the Inquisitor must be. She must go on, absorb the deaths as part of the cost of war, shrug it off and focus on the next mission. 

She must not think about the next Blight, and what they might do without the Wardens.

She must ignore the ghostly, accusatory eyes of the lieutenant, staring her down from the Fade, waiting to haunt her dreams.

“See to it that their sacrifice is honored,” Aeveth grates out.

“They died bravely,” Leliana says.

Aeveth’s head comes up as she inhales sharply. She shoots Leliana a daggerlike glare, her eyes narrowing. Aeveth snarls, makes a fist, punches the thick, sturdy wood of the table. “They died _needlessly_ like dogs, because I made the wrong decision!” Aeveth shouts, her voice ringing against the stone walls, making Josephine flinch. “I have doomed us _all_ , because in my wisdom I chose you, and not Josephine, or Cullen. They should not have died for my misjudgment. I don’t want to hear any platitudes from you about their bravery. They died pointlessly, and…” She drags in a breath; it turns into two, three. 

Aeveth tries not to sob. “Dismissed. You’re all dismissed! This session is over.”

She continues to lean on the table, allows it to hold her weight up as she waits for her advisors to withdraw. Without it, she would be a crying, useless heap on the floor. Josephine is the first to leave, her steps quiet and slow, eyes downcast. Leliana’s walk is brusque and clipped as she exits the door.

“Aeveth,” Cullen begins.

“Not now, Cullen,” she says, voice husky with emotion. “Not now. I need to be alone.”

“As you wish,” he says, hesitating a moment. When Aeveth doesn’t move, Cullen gathers himself and leaves.

She stands there for an unknown amount of time, the magnitude of her decision overwhelming her. That company had been the last of the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and now they were nothing but a letter on Leliana’s table and a note in a history book. Aeveth doesn’t even know how many there had been; the number of deaths is meaningless, just a high, incomprehensible number, high enough to turn her grief from the spiking pain of one to the submerging wave of many. It rolls her under repeatedly, steals her breath when she tries to surface; it drowns her with its thundering heaviness, fills her lungs with salty, stinging sorrow.

She straightens. Hard, she must be _hard_ , her heart implacable, unfeeling. Aeveth Trevelyan cannot walk from the War Room, but the Inquisitor can. Aeveth must not be herself, who would mourn the Grey Wardens; she must be her title, inhabit it, wear it like a second skin. The Inquisitor would honor their sacrifice. The Inquisitor would hold her head high, resolute, ready to pay any price in the market of war. The Inquisitor would be ready to handle the currency of lives as if she were rich with them, as if she were a spendthrift.

Aeveth quits the War Room, chin up, eyes calm and dry. Cullen is waiting in the hall, but she passes him without even a glance, just continues on. He calls out her name once, twice.

His hand lands on her shoulder. Aeveth feels herself being pivoted, turned. “Aeveth, look at me,” Cullen is saying. _”Aeveth._ ”

“Yes, Commander?” she responds, and the coldness of her expression makes Cullen take a step back. “I believe I dismissed the meeting. I have matters to attend.”

“Don’t do this,” he says to her, his voice low and urgent. “Don’t be like this, please.”

“I must make the rounds, Commander, if you’ll excuse me.” She pushes Cullen’s hand off her shoulder, leaves him standing on his own behind her.

 _Deathroot, 3 parts, extracted._ Aeveth checks in methodically on Skyhold, but the rest of the day passes in a blur.

 _Lyrium dust, 1 part, in a suspension of dragonthorn essence._ She skips meals, not feeling hunger or thirst, her exhaustion a faint memory.

 _Deep mushroom, 2 parts, ground and dehydrated._ Aeveth senses the familiar buzz in her head, the thorny itch that tells her that she will have nightmares.

 _Rashvine nettle, 4 parts, nettles only, boiled in water until soft, then distilled for concentration._ Tonight, it must be tonight. She will finish making the potion, and try it tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like mana from heaven, and I'm out of lyrium potions.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Drugs and drug overdose.

Nighttime is a particularly excellent time to brood, Cullen thinks, especially when one has a glass of wine, deep red, and a chair in front of the fire. Cullen sits, arms crossed, right hand holding one of Dorian’s select vintages, and scowls at the flames.

It’s late, the tavern is mostly empty, and Cullen knows he should be returning to his quarters to rest, but he can’t seem to shake the sense of dread that’s weighing on him. He’s done his best to check on Aeveth over the day, and it worries him that she hasn’t noticed him doing it. It worries him that she hasn’t noticed any of her friends trying to talk to her. She has brushed them all off in equal measure, defaulting to chilly courteousness, politely stonewalling their attempts at trying to reach her.

She hasn’t been seen since sundown, and it troubles him.

“Are you going to drink that? That’s perfectly good wine, and I hate seeing it go to waste.”

Cullen looks up to see Dorian hovering over his right shoulder. “By all means,” Cullen says, and gives up the glass. Dorian takes it and downs it in one gulp. “Dorian, I thought you said it was perfectly good wine, not common swill.”

The mage sighs, then sits down in the other chair, leaning back and crossing his legs ankle to knee. “It seems I have no appreciation for the finer things tonight, my friend. Your thundercloud here is threatening to take over the common room.” He smiles faintly, a twitch of his lips beneath his mustache.

“With good reason,” Cullen responds. “No one has seen her for hours.”

“Were I you, I’d be tempted to set a guard on her. Our Inquisitor does love to be spectacularly dramatic sometimes, for all the aversion to it she claims.”

“Don’t think I haven’t had the same thought. I must have assigned five details in my head already.” Cullen closes his eyes tiredly, rubs at them with two fingers. “Regarding the drama, it seems that I am the sole provoker of that trait.”

Dorian gives him a long look, his head tilted to the side. “It _is_ true that it is easiest to hurt those we love, for we know them better than others.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen massages his temple. “Is it that obvious?”

Dorian laughs gaily. “What an absurd question! Better to ask if it’s ever been subtle. The simple answer is no. The more complex answer is no, but the time is not right.” He bounces his knee a couple of times before he sighs. “Truthfully, I share your uneasy feelings. She is not in a good state, and that’s an understatement if I’ve ever made one. She may require us to mount a rescue.”

“How many drinks have you had tonight, Dorian?”

“Not enough, Cullen, why do you ask?”

“Stay mostly sober, for my sake. If we do mount a rescue and it goes the same way as some of my other attempts, I believe I shall need you.”

Dorian nods. “I am no Cassandra, but I will do my level best.”

The two of them fall into silence.

And then Cole appears, panicked nonsense falling from his lips.

*** *** ***

Cullen runs. He _runs_ , long strides taking him from the tavern, golden light spilling out behind him through the open door. He runs through the practice yard, Dorian a few paces back, reaches the steps to the Great Hall, takes them two at a time. He pushes through the double doors as if they are not there, speeds to Aeveth’s door, hammers on it with his fist.

 _Forgive me the trespass,_ he thinks to himself, right as Dorian comes up, muttering an unlocking spell. The latch clicks and Cullen throws himself against the door in his haste to get inside. It is dark in her quarters, the air stifling and thick, with an unpleasant undercurrent. Dorian gestures and all is lit; the fireplace whooshes to life, candleflames dance on their wicks. Cullen reaches the top of the stairs, hand gripping the railing, yawing around it.

He stops, staring in dismay.

A hushed whisper from Dorian: “Maker help us.”

The scene is one of destruction. Broken stones litter the floor, some cracked clean in two, some crushed to dust. Scorch marks decorate the ceiling and walls, and the fine silk drapes of the bed, as well as the beautifully woven rugs on the floor, are crisped and blackened, edges curling up. Parts of the floor are wet, evidence of melted ice. Every available glass surface from mirror to window is a sooty, smoky gray, and the couch by the railing lies in splinters.

Piles of clothing are scattered around, interspersed with stacks of books and sheets of paper. Dorian picks one up, peers at it, shakes his head and puts it down. Cullen knows he must share his friend’s feelings of shock and sorrow at the state of her bedroom. He realizes, stunned, that she must have been hiding this from them for a long time, that the rumor he’d heard regarding the servants is true.

Cullen’s steps take him to the bed and the slight figure in the wrinkled, dingy sheets. He passes the nightstand, glances past the dead flower, notes briefly the glass, mostly full of a familiar-looking dark pink concoction. “Aeveth?” he calls out. Her face is obscured by the covers; he pulls them back. “Sweet Andraste, _Aeveth!”_

She is awake, perhaps. Her eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, and when he puts a hand to her forehead he feels that her skin is clammy and cold. Her lips are parted, blanched pale, and he can see her struggling to take breath.

She stirs, and slowly, so slowly, her eyes roll to the side and focus on him, past him. Her mouth works, but no sound comes out. “Cul....len…?” she slurs at him eventually.

“Maker, what did you do?” he asks her, horrified, anguished.

She doesn’t respond. Her eyes close.

Terrified, Cullen throws the covers off and gathers her into his arms. “Dorian!” he shouts.

“I’m right here,” Dorian growls. “Quickly, lay her on the floor. It is vital we keep her breathing.”

“Deathroot, 3 parts, extracted,” and Cole is there, face drawn in an expression of distress, kneeling by Aeveth’s head. His words come fast, rapid-fire. “Lyrium dust, 1 part, in a suspension of dragonthorn essence.”

“Not now, Cole,” Cullen grinds out as he lays two fingers against Aeveth’s neck, feeling for her pulse. Dorian gets on the floor and puts his cheek by her lips, eyes closed, seeking the touch of her breath.

“Deep mushroom, 2 parts, ground and extracted -”

_”Not now, Cole -”_

“- rashvine nettles, nettles only, 4 parts -”

Cullen turns on the boy, enraged. “I said _NOT NOW,_ Cole!”

“Helping, I was trying to help, help her, help you, helping, I’m helping,” the spirit boy wails and babbles, covering his eyes with his hands. “I told you _deathroot, rashvine nettle,_ fumes clouding her room, three drops, not two! So much hurt, too many visions, drink it down, drown it, make it go away! It hurts and it keeps hurting, just drink it, no more magic, thank you Cullen, thank you for the books, they have helped immeasurably.”

Shaking, nauseous, his mouth dry and ashen, Cullen looks at the nightstand, at the glass of innocent pink liquid sitting there, a single imprint of lips on the rim. He gasps, founders for breath, his heart racing as he recognizes the poison. It’s familiar, yes it’s so familiar to him; he knows what it is just by looking, doesn’t need to smell its overly sweet scent, taste its astringent flavor.

Magebane.

“Magebane,” Cullen croaks, and Dorian’s head whips up, disbelief written across his features. “But the kind the Templars use doesn’t have an effect like this. She… she must have been… the formula…”

He sits down hard, reeling, puts his head in his hands in an attempt to steady himself. It’s all clear in his head now, all the clues adding up. Her laboratory, her research, the experiments, the scattered papers in her room with dark, angry scribbles, her love of puzzles and solving them. The book, _of course_ , the books he’d sent to her room while she was away, he’d been so pleased she had a favorite, loved how engrossed she was with a gift he’d picked out.

 _How long?_ he wonders, despairing. _How long has she been planning this?_

A touch upon his shoulder. “Cullen, pull yourself together. Aeveth needs us right now.”

Cullen knuckles his eyes, takes a deep breath, shoves his feelings aside roughly, willing them away so he can focus on her. She needs his help. He can give it.

“Restoratives,” he tells Dorian in a low voice. “Restoratives, any of them. And a lyrium potion.”

“Are you sure -”

“For _her_ , not me! The poison acts upon magic but it can be fooled with lyrium. The more there is in her blood to counteract it, the better.” Cullen’s attention turns to Cole. “Go now, Cole. Go to the stores. I need a rack of lyrium potions.” The boy disappears. “Dorian -”

The Tevinter mage is already on his feet. “I’ll be right back. Keep her breathing.”

Cullen gets to his knees, takes Aeveth’s hand, clutches it to his chest. He bends over her body, closes his eyes. _Breathe_ , he wills her, cupping her cheek with his other hand, his thumb hovering over her mouth. _Breathe,_ he tells her, feeling the slightest movement of air.

 _Breathe._ And because he has nothing left, even though she'd hate it if she knew he prayed to a god she thinks has forsaken them, he speaks the Chant. 

_Breathe._ “O Maker, hear my cry: guide me -” _breathe_ “- through the blackest nights, steel my heart -” _breathe_ “- against the temptations of the wicked. Make me -" _breathe_ "- to rest in the warmest places.”

Cullen breathes as if by sheer willpower he can get her chest to rise and fall, to make it so that the air infusing his lungs will infuse hers as well, as if he can respire enough for the both of them.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_   
_And comfort is only Yours to give._

_Breathe, Aeveth._

A tinkling of glass heralds Cole’s arrival. He appears, wild-eyed, and thrusts the packet of lyrium potions at Cullen. Cullen takes one, pulls the cork out with his teeth, opens Aeveth’s mouth, tipping the concentrated blue liquid carefully into it. He sets the empty vial down, using two hands now, holds her mouth gently shut, strokes her throat until finally, finally, she swallows.

She takes a breath, and Cullen thinks it’s a bit stronger.

Cullen pops open a second potion, repeats his actions. She swallows again, and this time he’s sure her breathing improves. He does it a third time, and then Dorian returns, hands full of bottles.

Cullen has never been so relieved in his life to hear her sputter and cough, then draw in a ragged breath. Her eyes open sluggishly, pupils swallowing the irises, but she looks at him, he swears it, and whispers, “Cullen?”

He grabs her hand, sobs once. He kisses her fingers, his tears falling to the ruined floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here with me, I apologize for the turn this has taken! It gets better from here on out, I promise.
> 
> Comments fuel writers, please feed me!


	15. Chapter 15

Convalescence.

A gradual healing over time, a gradual growing of strength, strength of body, strength of mind.

Strength of spirit.

Aeveth lies in bed and looks up into the canopy above, eyes tracing the ruffles of lace highlighted by the sunrise, and reflects on her convalescence. It’s odd that she’d call it that; she’s adopting Vivienne’s language, she supposes. “You’ve been ill, my dear,” Vivienne had said to her as they sat on her balcony for tea. “You will need time to rest and recuperate, and become yourself again.”

Aeveth hasn’t been lying abed, nor has her daily routine been much interrupted. She finds, however, that she is constantly being watched over. Her friends may pretend they are only there for idle chatter, but they are keeping an eye on her, making sure she doesn’t suffer from another moment of unmitigated stupidity. Dorian meets her for breakfast after her morning meetings. Shortly after they finish, Thom will appear, and they will go to the stables together to lunge the horses and take them out for a quick ride. Aeveth will have barely a moment to breathe before it’s lunch; Sera and Bull will trade off entertainment for that hour, until it’s time for Aeveth to help in the mage tower, work in the garden, or entertain visiting nobility. Vivienne opens her door for tea at the fourth bell, and once the evening meetings are concluded, Varric accompanies her to the tavern for dinner. Cole does not see her regularly, but she knows the spirit boy is watching, listening. Cullen is conspicuously absent.

It chafes against her, the vigilance. Aeveth hopes she is in the process of getting better. 

She _has_ to be.

She doesn’t remember much of what happened. Dorian says they found her half-dead and unresponsive, and Aeveth can’t suppress the frisson of shame that goes through her body every time she thinks of it, knowing they were in her quarters, tending to her in her state. Cullen and Dorian have seen her at her worst, and she isn’t proud of it. Sometimes Aeveth will catch Dorian watching her with an odd look on his face, and it’s so disconcerting that Aeveth will stop and ask him about Iron Bull. It works every time.

Aeveth sighs through her nose, turns her head to look at Josephine, still asleep in her own bed on the other side of the room. She smiles fondly as she watches her friend, hair unbound and loose and falling in tendrils over her forehead and cheek, mouth slightly open. She’s been generous and brave in offering Aeveth a place to sleep while her quarters are repaired. Not once has Josie said a word about nightmares or uncontrollable magic. Instead she supplies Aeveth with a steady stream of gossip, and it isn’t long before the two of them are thick as thieves, tittering into their hands, huddled together on Josephine’s bed.

When the lights are out, Aeveth wonders how the ambassador can trust her enough to sleep soundly at night.

She wonders how there isn’t a Templar standing guard at the door.

She finds herself suddenly in a foul mood, compelled to get out of bed. Aeveth pulls the covers aside and slides out quietly, dressing herself and slipping out the door in a matter of minutes. Now is her chance to get some alone time, and she climbs up to the battlements, moving briskly in the autumn morning chill. Even so, it will take some time to walk a full circuit of Skyhold. Aeveth looks forward to the exercise, the quiet of dawn, with only passing guards to keep her company.

Aeveth deliberately tries not to think of anything, refuses to commit to going anywhere, but her feet take her to Cullen’s tower. She stands on the path and looks up, up at the windows just starting to reflect sunlight, hoping that Cullen is awake, that she'll catch a glimpse of him somehow, even as she remembers Dorian’s retelling and her shame burns in her acidly.

A floppy hat, a pale face. There’s Cole, sitting on the wall. “Hello,” he says.

“Cole.” Aeveth smiles briefly, then returns to gazing at Cullen’s windows. “He’s angry with me, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Cole hops off the wall, joins her. “And scared. Pale, so pale, white like death, like a shroud, breath shallow, hands cold. How long? Unsure, so unsure.”

Aeveth shifts uncomfortably as she listens to Cole’s narration. “Cole, if you could please... not tell me that. It’s not something I want to relive.”

He tilts his head at her. “You are ashamed, abashed, humiliated. Do you want to forget?”

Aeveth blinks, surprised. After a moment’s consideration, she asks, “If I forget, will I still dream?”

“No. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can make you stop dreaming, if that helps.”

She looks down at her hands, twists her fingers together. It would be so easy to ask Cole to make her forget, to go back to sleeping the entire night, to be unafraid to close her eyes. No more waking to lightning careening wildly off her skin, no more icicles hanging from the ceiling, no more sore throats no amount of tea with honey can soothe. “Cole,” Aeveth says slowly, drawing out the spirit boy’s name, “will I… remember everything else?”

He looks pensive, tilts his head in the other direction. “Some of it.”

“I understand. Thank you for trying to help, Cole, but I think I’ll keep everything.”

“But you’ll dream! No, _no_ , can’t give in, eyes fixed on me, gray, silverite, tawny gryphons, blood burning, blighted, becoming -” Cole stops as Aeveth grips his arm firmly.

“I don’t want to forget if that means I won’t know half of who I am,” she says quietly. “Yes, I’ll dream. Yes, I’m scared. I’m so scared.” She releases him, hugs herself, shivering. “But it… it makes me better.”

“His words,” Cole murmurs, looking at her.

Aeveth nods.

“His _words_ ,” Cole repeats.

Aeveth’s eyebrows try to meet in the middle of her forehead. Her eyes flick towards Cullen’s tower; she indicates it with a jerk of her head. “ _His_ words, right? You’re looking at me when you should be looking over there.”

“Yes.” He’s still staring at her, unblinking.

She sighs. “Oh Cole, never stop being you.”

That night she returns to Josephine’s room, gets ready for bed, settles alertly into the mattress. Before she blows out the candle, she spies the box on her nightstand where she’s kept Cullen’s letters.

Aeveth’s breath comes faster. His words, Cole had said. His _words_.

She scrambles out of bed, deft fingers flipping the latch, opening the top. Aeveth grabs the thick pile of papers, brings them to bed with her. She lights another candle and begins to read.

*** *** ***

“Darling, you should know that I’ve looked into your work, and frankly, it’s impeccable.”

Aeveth sniffs. “Of course it is, Madam de Fer. If I was going to cut myself off from the Fade temporarily and almost kill myself, I was going to do it correctly.”

“That’s morbid even for you, darling.” Vivienne eyes her disapprovingly.

Aeveth presses her fingertips into the bridge of her nose. “Please, Vivienne, all I have left is morbid humor. Let me indulge in it.”

The First Enchanter snorts. “Whatever for? It doesn’t suit you, and it’s disrespectful.”

She’s right, but Aeveth is feeling frustrated after two weeks of being watched. “You’re right. Forgive me.” She reaches for her teacup, takes a sip. “You were looking into my work, you said?”

“Yes, and you’ve created quite the nasty little poison from that recipe.” Vivienne takes a sip of her tea, shudders delicately. “This cannot get into the wrong hands. I do admit, however, to being in admiration of your alchemical talents.”

“That’s quite the compliment, Vivienne.”

“Isn’t it, darling? Once I knew a brilliant young mage at the Ostwick Circle of Magi. She had just been promoted to enchanter and would have been the youngest senior enchanter in decades had the circle not fallen. She was strong of mind and will, and kind of heart.” Vivienne regards her seriously over the rim of her teacup. “I see a little of her in you, now. I pray in time that you will become her again.”

Aeveth hides her smile by taking another sip of tea. “Vivienne, if you continue this way, I shall be forced to call you Madam de Velours instead.”

“Perish the thought. I regret to have said anything at all.” A pause. “I heard the most interesting thing from Val Royeaux the other day. Did you know that embrium crowns are now all the rage? Well played, Aeveth.”

“I don’t believe I have ever started a fashion craze before.”

“Enjoy it while you can, darling, enjoy it while you can."

*** *** ***

Winter comes early in the year, hushing fall before the trees are finished turning, covering the vivid reds and oranges of the trees with a light blanket of whispery snow. Aeveth interrupts preparations for a trip to Denerim to watch the snow fall, standing on Vivienne’s balcony with a thick cloak wrapped around her, watching the bustle in the courtyard, letting the snow cover her hair and eyelashes, appreciating the simple joy of the world muting around her.

She’s not sure how long she’s been standing there before she sees Cullen coming up the steps to the Great Hall. Aeveth finds herself at the railing, one hand clutching the freezing stone, breathless. She sees him every day for the War Table, but he’s there to fulfill professional obligations. Outside of the meetings and some stilted, awkward conversations in the tavern, she hasn’t seen him much.

Aeveth watches him climb, her throat suddenly tight. He must have just finished running training exercises, she thinks, because he’s walking with that little swagger, that air of confidence and charisma he adopts when he becomes Commander. It’s riveting, and she can’t take her eyes off him, can’t stop looking as he reaches up with a gloved hand and casually brushes snow away from his hair, can’t find air when he halts on the landing, turning his face up to the skies to let the snowflakes drift down onto his cheeks.

Cullen’s eyes meet hers, and Aeveth’s heart leaps into her mouth. She’s ice, she’s frozen, frozen in body, frozen in time. She can’t break away from his gaze. He does it first, his expression gentle, half a smile curving his lips, and for the first time in a while, Aeveth thinks perhaps he is not angry at her anymore.

“Inquisitor?”

“Yes - uh - yes?” Aeveth turns to face the messenger, trying to smooth her face into a neutral expression. Her cheeks are hot. She clears her throat.

“You’ve a letter from Divine Victoria, your Worship.” She holds out a thick package.

“Oh!” Excited, Aeveth snatches it up. “My thanks!” She hasn’t had correspondence from Cassandra for a long while, and she misses her best friend acutely. “I’m going to read this right away. See that no one disturbs me.”

“Yes, your Worship.”

Aeveth hurries to Josephine’s room. Despite her quarters having been finished for some time now, she can’t bring herself to leave, finds the idea of being without Josie’s company upsetting. Josie has had enough time to live through Aeveth’s nightmares now, and has taken to leaving Aeveth a glass of water and a few chocolates before turning in for the night. At first Aeveth was skeptical, but she’s discovered that the sweets do help after waking from a nightmare, gulping air, sheets fisted in her hands.

She locks the door behind her, throws herself into the lushly padded armchair by the window. Aeveth almost tears the envelope in her hurry to get to the contents inside. The paper is of heavy stock, fine vellum, embossed even, and covered with seals of every imaginable size. It’s entirely too fancy for Cassandra, and Aeveth can imagine Cassandra’s look of impatience as her aides drip unending amounts of wax onto the envelope, almost hear her noise of disgust at the extravagance of it all.

Aeveth immerses herself in her friend’s letter, reading Cassandra’s lefty, surprisingly loopy scrawl without much difficulty. She’s only about halfway through when a knock sounds at the door. She frowns and ignores it.

She makes it another few lines before the knock sounds again, louder this time.

Aeveth sets the letter down on the table beside the chair, scowling at the interruption. She stalks towards the door, raising her voice loud enough to be heard through it as she grabs the latch, yanking. “I thought I left orders not to be -”

The door opens, revealing Cullen.

“- disturbed.”

Silence. Dreadful, awful, shameful silence. She can’t meet his eyes. She lowers her head, inspects the floor instead.

“May I enter?” Cullen’s voice is soft and low, barely above a rumble. Aeveth knows this voice, this particular combination of pitch and timbre that he’s ever only used for her, wonders why he’s using it against her in such a way. She has never been able to resist it. 

She will probably never be able to resist it.

Wordlessly, Aeveth nods, backing away from the door to let Cullen in. She leaves it open and turns to him, steadfastly refusing to look at his face. “What…” she starts. “What do you need?”

“If you could please shut the door…”

Aeveth shakes her head too fast, hair tumbling in front of her eyes. She lifts a hand and tucks some of it back behind her ear, still not looking at him. Oh _Maker_ , she’s burning. She isn’t ready to face him, not without the thick wall of her title to shield her.

“Aeveth.”

“I’m sorry, Cullen. I just... “ Aeveth wants to, she really does, but at the same time, she can’t. Even with the door open she feels caged, _wild_ , ready to run from him. She needs a drink. She needs Dorian. She needs a drink _and_ Dorian. Someone, anyone, anything, a lightning bolt to fry her perhaps, so Cullen can stop looking at her that way. She puts her hand to her forehead, shielding her face from him. Easier, it was easier when he was angry, and not like this.

“Are you…hiding? Maker, no, don’t do that.” And he is next to her, in her space, a hand pulling hers away from her head, the other tilting her chin up so, so gently. Inwardly, Aeveth curses herself for trembling, swears the foulest oaths she knows at her weakness. She has faced down dragons and darkspawn magisters, walked the Fade bodily not once but twice, but with Cullen, she is laid bare, raw and open.

“I had a letter from Cassandra,” Cullen says, looking down at her, “and she bid me come see you. I was on the way when I saw you and…” He looks to the side, then back at her. “I confess that I forgot everything for a moment, and thought only of you.”

Aeveth swallows. Her words are a breath, an exhalation. “I thought you were angry with me.”

“I was, for a time. Angry and afraid. I almost lost you that night, and the memory of it undid me.” He frees her hand, but leaves his fingers under her chin. “When I stopped feeling angry, I was left with uncertainty. I wasn’t sure if you…”

She can’t help herself. She laughs mirthlessly. “Cullen, I’ve been too embarrassed to -”

“ _Maker_ ,” he cuts in heatedly, “why do we keep letting ourselves get in each other’s way?”

He kisses her, and it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever experienced.

She presses herself against him, feels his arms wind around her, tightening. She feels her heart racing, feels his pulse fluttering under his skin when she reaches up to cradle his face, rising on tiptoes so she can kiss him more deeply. Aeveth’s heart aches, oh it _hurts_ , but it’s a good hurt, a healing hurt rushing out of her. As the minutes tick by, marked by the sounds of swiftly drawn breaths, mouths parting and seeking, she realizes what she tastes is Cullen’s love for her, honeyed on his tongue. 

They pull apart but are drawn back together, and Aeveth feels her head spinning, a dizzying rush followed by an intense hunger for him. They have been without each other for the better part of a year and it is almost a physical pain for her to slide her lips from his, turn her face so that he kisses her cheek, her temple, her brow. “What…” Cullen murmurs, his lips finding her neck, and Aeveth gasps and arches, desire coiling hot between her legs.

“Stop, oh _please_ , not here,” she moans at him, words tumbling out as his lips and tongue touch that spot under her ear. She can hear and feel his breath, so close, sultry. Aeveth is barely holding onto reason, not quite knowing why she is saying the exact opposite of what she feels. “You...Cullen, _oh_ , the door…Cassandra, Josie’s room…”

Cullen growls low in his throat, nips her under the jaw as he steps back. Aeveth puts a hand to her chest, panting, blindsided. “Sweet Maker, Cullen, if that’s what you’re like after…”

He finds the nearest hard surface and steadies himself, takes several breaths to calm himself down. “You’re leaving for Denerim tomorrow. It won’t get any better.”

“I have nothing planned for when I come back,” Aeveth supplies helpfully.

Cullen growls again. “I believe myself a patient man, but it’s wearing quite thin right now. So let us talk about the important matters in Cassandra’s letter before I lose my mind utterly and make it so that I can never look at Josephine again without shame and remorse.”

Aeveth laughs. “What was it, then?” She’s in the same state, herself. Aeveth fans herself, walks a circuit in front of the door, breathing evenly.

He wastes no time. “I wrote to Cassandra half a year ago regarding Templar abilities without lyrium. She has been researching it ever since.”

Aeveth stops mid-stride. Cautiously, she says, “And?”

“I received word from her today. What I did to you - forgive me. It’s…” Cullen drags his hand through his hair. “I could theoretically do it again.”

Her breath hitches. “So you’re still a Templar, then?”

Cullen shakes his head. “No. I haven’t all the abilities and I am not part of the Order. But the chance is still there…”

Aeveth forces her heart to stop buzzing in her chest. “What you did that night, Cullen, I forgave you. I forgive you. I gave you no choice. You made me realize how dangerous I was becoming to myself, and you.” And started her on the long, winding road to ruination, but that was beside the point. “I love you, which means that I have to accept what you are. If you accept what I am.”

“I do,” he says fervently. “I do. We’ll make it work somehow. I can’t... Aeveth, no more secrets, all right?”

She nods at him. “No more secrets.”

“Well, that went unexpectedly better than I thought it would.” Cullen breathes in, blows air, cheeks puffing. “Could we possibly go elsewhere before Josephine returns? I’m afraid I’m losing the ability to think.”

She laughs and goes to him, takes his hand. “I might have something in mind.”

Aeveth leads Cullen to her quarters, unmindful of the crowd in the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a bit of love in the comments ~ because I think you can guess what might happen in the next chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW in the slightest!
> 
> If you are here for smut, welcome! I hope you find your bunk comfortable. If you aren't here for smut, please proceed straight to chapter 17.

For the second year in a row, Aeveth is spending the winter away from Skyhold. Last year, she was in the desert. This year, Cullen reflects grumpily, she is in Denerim, at the royal palace, dancing, charming, and playing the Grand Game to her heart’s content. Or as much of the Grand Game as Fereldans will allow, at least.

As much as he dislikes dancing, charming, and playing the Grand Game, Cullen wishes that he, too, were in Denerim.

He tells himself it isn’t because he misses her, and that he would give his sword arm to see her dressed in court finery. To see her wearing some kind of fancy, figure-hugging gown with a low neckline which seemed to be all the rage, at least according to Lady Vivienne; to help her get ready, fastening the clasp of some jeweled, glittering necklace around her, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her graceful neck; to walk her back to their apartments, her shoes dropping from distracted fingers as he kisses her and holds her up against the wall, her skirts rucked up around her waist, his lips at the hollow of her throat.

No, it’s because winter in the middle of the Frostback mountains in a keep set in an impossible spot on top of one of the tallest peaks is damned miserable, just _fucking miserable_ , and Cullen can’t seem to get warm when it’s negative Maker’s balls out. He groans, puts a hand to his face, and squeezes his eyes shut, listening to the blizzard howling angrily outside. It’s because, he tells himself, anywhere is better than here.

His uncomfortably hard erection says otherwise.

Cullen groans again and debates the merits of taking care of it or letting it go away on its own. He decides on the easiest solution, gets up, goes to the washroom, comes out feeling only mildly better a few minutes later, and tosses more wood into the fireplace.

Cullen watches the flames kiss the log for a minute before turning away and taking a seat at Aeveth’s desk. Her latest letter is on it, pages and pages of her writing, front and back, lying in a careful fan on top of the blotter. He picks up the first page, begins rereading for the hundredth time. A week, the letter says, if the negotiations are going well, and she and Alistair can agree on whether or not the Inquisition can claim its own lands, and what part of Ferelden may be ceded, if at all. One more week, and then she can come home, home where she isn’t on a first-name basis with the king of Ferelden.

Aeveth will come home to him, and Cullen will do anything to watch her mouth form his name, the tip of her tongue touching her teeth as she only gets halfway through, gasping, stuck on the L. He’ll kiss her, fill her with himself, hear her slip from moan to sigh and back, cradle her head as it lolls back in her pleasure, make her lose the ability to speak.

Cullen doesn’t even finish reading the letter before he lets his forehead drop onto the table with a thunk. It’s useless. He might as well go outside and get frostbite.

*** *** ***

It’s a few weeks before she arrives at Skyhold, but by that time the worst of the winter storms have passed and Cullen has beaten enough soldiers in the training yard to keep himself controlled. He is out overseeing calibrations to the trebuchets when the bells begin to ring, but by the time he’s able to get back down to the courtyard, her coterie has already long dispersed.

Cullen looks for her, visiting the Great Hall first, where there are gathered several visiting nobles. As he approaches her door, they begin to converge on him; he beats a hasty retreat, decides to try the little library instead.

The library door is closed and locked, but Cullen thinks he sees the faint glow of lights under it. He knocks, rapping his knuckles against the wood. "Aeveth?" he calls.

"Cullen?" comes the response after a second. The latch turns, and the door opens.

"There you are. I've been looking for you." Cullen steps into the room, then halts. It's mostly dark but for the two candelabras lit at the end of the hall. "How can you read in this light?"

She shuts the door behind him and locks it. "You think I was reading, waiting for you to find me?" She giggles. "It's been how long since we've seen each other, and your first thought is that I'm reading. Cullen, you're so..."

He looks at her, _looks_ at her; she is wearing a white robe, belted loosely, with nothing underneath. She hasn't bothered to close it off completely, and the neckline plunges, plunges straight down between her breasts, the long V of skin coming to a point beneath her navel. " _Maker_ ," he says. He can feel himself growing hard.

"All right, that's a start," she replies. She grins and leans against the door, her hands behind her back. It has the net effect of pushing her chest out at him. 

He stares, coughs, clears his throat. "Aeveth, there are some nobles waiting..."

"Let them wait. I've given enough of myself to them. Two months' worth, in fact. Now it's my turn to take." Her grin turns predatory. "Strip, Cullen."

He laughs, then begins undoing straps and buckles, keeping his eyes on her the entire time. She meets his gaze until he has to pull his undershirt off. The rustling of his clothes masks her approach, and right as he has the shirt around his wrists, ready to slip it off his arms, she grabs the cloth, twisting it, capturing him.

Their smiles match each other in the dim hallway.

Her hip-swaying gait leads him into the library, where she knots his shirt loosely around his wrists. "Stand there," she tells him calmly, indicating a spot by the rightmost chair. He does so, wondering what she has planned. "Eyes ahead, Cullen. Don't you move."

He does his best but when she unlaces him and nuzzles his length, he can’t help but close his eyes and suck in his lower lip, bowing his head. Aeveth peels his breeches and smalls down, begins kissing him wetly up and down his shaft, slowly at first, but gaining momentum as the minutes pass. Cullen's hands fist in his shirt, clenching and unclenching as he tries to hold still; his arms strain against the wool.

And then her mouth descends on him.

He groans loudly, locking his knees to stop them from buckling, his hands reaching for her head. She bats him away, humming around him, and he groans again, stilling himself. Aeveth must be tightly wound because she is wasting no time, taking him deeply in long, slow strokes, her hand wrapped firmly around his base. Cullen tries his best to keep staring straight ahead - oh, _books_ , look - but in no time his lack of conditioning has him breathing in and out unevenly, the sound razor sharp, teetering.

Aeveth senses when he's about to step off the edge, loosens her lips around him, stands up. He looks at her, panting; she has never looked so damnably attractive as now, with her cheeks flushed and her lightly tilted brown eyes alight. Her lips glisten, and Cullen wants to kiss them, kiss her hard, make the blood rush to them so that when he pulls away they will be full and parted and dark pink, and she will look like desire made flesh.

She grabs hold of his shirt, holds his hands down, and instead, kisses him.

He moans into her mouth. How blessed is he, Cullen thinks, that he loves a woman who understands him so well, who not only knows his mind but also knows his body, who wants him as much as he wants her? She kisses him, demanding, and he gives in because tonight she is the one who will take care of him, who will control the pace and free him from decision. As she kisses him she splays her hands over his stomach, feeling the ripple of his muscles, slides her palms over his hipbones, digs her fingers lightly into his backside.

He aches when she pulls away, makes a little sound in his throat when she takes a step back. Aeveth smiles at him, full lips parted slightly, and Cullen shivers with the intensity of his _want_. He wants to be inside her. He wants to be inside her, up against the bookshelves. He wants to be inside her up against the bookshelves, down on the table, laid out on the floor, taking her on every available square inch of the room.

She places a hand on his shirt, unknots it easily, pulls it off his hands and tosses it aside. "Breeches off," she tells him, her voice low and husky. "Sit when you're done."

Cullen complies quickly, pulling at the laces of his boots, stepping on the heels to get them off fast. His socks come off with his breeches and smalls, and when he's fully nude he takes a seat on the chair.

Aeveth leans over and kisses him languidly, lazily, takes his hand, puts it on the sash around her waist. He finds the bow and pulls on one end, the satiny cloth moving like water through the knot. Her robe falls open and Cullen instinctively reaches forward, his hands going to her hips. "Mmm," he rumbles at her, finding her bottom, tracing its gently rounded contour with his palms before settling his hands into the delightful, maddening, sensuous curve right underneath, where her ass and thighs join.

Cullen loves this, this part of her body; he loves how easily he can pull her apart from here, how if he moves his fingers just an inch he can slip them inside her. Aeveth hmms her approval, breaks their kiss, rests her forehead against his, and says _yes_.

She moves, straddling him; he helps, spreading her thighs, guiding her to him, setting himself against her slick, wet entrance. She tilts her hips slightly, and he pushes in, sliding deep, groaning as she parts around him, coming to rest when her thighs meet his.

Aeveth sighs her happiness out loudly, then wriggles, shifting so that she can take him in deeper, setting her feet against the rungs underneath the seat. Cullen grips her ass, closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, enraptured by her silkiness, savoring the feeling of being immersed in her.

A hand, placed on his chest. "Eyes open, Cullen," comes her soft command, and Cullen does as she bids, tries to come out of his fog, tries to meet her gaze with his. "Yes," she purrs. “Like that. Watch me, as long as you can.”

She begins moving, riding him gently at first, moaning as she does so. Cullen grits his teeth and tries not to close his eyes so he can watch her, but he wants nothing more than to bury his face in her bosom, fasten his mouth on her breast, nibble along her collarbone, get his hands tight in her hair and tug her head back so he can put his lips to her neck. But Aeveth’s eyes are looking into his, and he can’t tear himself away. Like this, regarding each other, putting each throaty noise in context - every slide of flesh on flesh results in a moan, every roll of her hips against his is a gasped “Cullen!” - it’s intense, and incredibly sexy.

Aeveth puts her hands to either side of his head, clutches the back of the chair, grinds her hips against his. She is the first to break eye contact as she arches back, whining, her hair falling away from her face. Cullen would help, but _Maker_ all he can do is hold on, riding a cresting wave of pleasure, and hope that she gets something out of it before he comes. “Aeveth,” he says, and something in his voice must alert her, because she slows down, changes speed, slides herself up and down on him in hot, tight strokes.

“It’s alright, Cullen,” she manages, right before he pulls her down onto him sharply. She keens, rippling around him. “It’s alright.”

Cullen sighs, a moan escaping him as she rocks her hips against him particularly fast. He feels her clench around him again. Cullen closes his eyes, seizes her hips, drives her down onto him, snaps his hips up towards hers, listens for the whimper pressing itself out of her throat. _Maker,_ he thinks, _Maker, sweet Andraste,_ and -

“Let go of the chair,” he growls at her, and when she does, Cullen picks her up, pushes her against the large desk, and thrusts into her hard. Aeveth wails then, the sound exploding from her lips, the passion of it stealing his breath away. Three quick, rough pumps of his hips is all it takes to put him over the edge. Cullen comes hard then, hard and fast, his breath rasping away from him as he spends himself inside her.

“Mmm,” she says to him as he recovers, reaching up with her hand, tracing her fingertips over his jaw. Her eyes are half-lidded; she is the very picture of satisfaction.

Cullen blows air out slowly from his mouth, pulls himself out, sets Aeveth back on her feet. “You didn’t…?” he starts to ask.

The smile she gives him is tender. “I did, a little,” Aeveth says, kissing him briefly on his lips. “But I already had a few while I was waiting. You honestly didn’t think I was reading, did you?”

He grins at her, then touches her cheek, brushes his thumb gently across her cheekbone. “Do you think we’ll ever use this room for reading?”

Aeveth laughs. “No, I don’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Thank you for being here - and please, leave a comment, tell me how you feel!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers,
> 
> Thank you for being patient with me, and trusting me to tell this story. It's not perfect - there are things I'd love to do over, rewrite, mistakes that I should have fixed - but it was a story I wanted to tell, and I'm so honored that you stayed to listen. I love you all - and don't forget to leave me some love in the comment section. NO SERIOUSLY, PLEASE DO. Even if you hate it and want to flame me.
> 
> Edit: Now there are deleted scenes and bonus content! Check out [In the Meanwhile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3310898/chapters/7233308) for more shenanigans, and [In Flowers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3309233) for smut even I can be proud of.
> 
> Edit 2: And now a sequel! [Eveningwear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3546317/chapters/7807637) is here for your needs in case you haven't been hurt enough.

Cullen asks her about the book once.

He is quiet and reserved, restrained when he asks, and Aeveth knows that the question has been eating away at him for some time, eating away at him until finally he can’t ignore the festering wound caused by not knowing. She takes his hand in hers, leans close, kisses him on the cheek, sits down on the couch with him. She rests her head on his shoulder, her hair falling across his collarbone.

She does it so she won’t have to look him in the eye when she tells him.

Cullen listens, and Aeveth can feel his muscles tense when she speaks of the smite, how it gave her the idea for the magebane. His hands curl into fists when she tells him of finding the formula by chance, stay fisted when she says it’s not his fault, he didn’t know.

He asks her how long she had been preparing, and she tells him: six months, at the very least, the book always with her, with _them_ , together in her sanctuary.

Cullen gets up then, pushing her off gently, and stands. Without another word he picks up his coat, shrugs it on, and goes downstairs slowly, not once looking back at her. Aeveth hears the door open and close. She bites her tongue - too late now, but she bites it anyway, bites it and cries into the couch cushion.

Aeveth burns the book.

Cullen returns the next morning, comes up the stairs just as she’s rising from bed. It’s third watch, and from the way he looks she guesses that he hasn’t slept. He says nothing to her, only embraces her for long moments. Aeveth goes to fetch him some strong tea, but when she comes back she finds that he’s fallen asleep in the bed, laying on his side, facing away from her.

They never speak of the topic ever again.

*** *** ***

It’s hard.

Aeveth knows that certain things will never come easily to them, that she and Cullen have so many damages between them that all they can do some days is hold on and endure until the sun rises. It’s possible that she’d be better suited to someone else; on bad days, Cullen flat out tells her that she deserves better, but she’ll give him such a furious look that he’ll shut his mouth, lips flattening into a line, and go to the training yard to hit things until he’s too exhausted to feel anything.

Despite it all they commit to each other, lean against one another, take comfort in knowing the breadth and depth of each others’ hurts. Cullen is there for her on the days when she wakes, her eyes hollow from her dreams; she tends to him when his thoughts overwhelm him and he sits by the fire, shaking and chilled. “I’m here,” she’ll say to him. “Cullen, look at me, I’m right here, you’re safe.”

He’ll come back from whatever dark hole he’s plumbing in his mind, and the light will return to his eyes. Cullen will sigh, relaxing against the chair, his eyes shut in relief. Aeveth will sit on the floor in front of him, and his hand will fall against her the crown of her head, and she’ll let him comb his fingers through her hair. She’ll close her eyes, turn her head, and kiss his palm.

It’s hard, being together.

But it’s better when they are.

*** *** ***

When there is time - and there really never is - Aeveth and Cullen ride out from Skyhold on their own and return to Honnleath. They walk along the dock that stretches out into the lake, sit at the end of it, and lean against the pilings, their bare feet trailing in the water. They don’t talk, and pass the time in comfortable silence.

Aeveth can see Cullen imagining that house of his, see him figuring out where it will sit, how large the foundation has to be, how it has to be placed so that if the water rises, the house will remain dry. She watches him build his fantasy, and if she tries hard enough she thinks she can trace the blueprint, walk the layout of the rooms, feel the rough touch of the hearthstones. Aeveth lets him indulge himself, knowing that the Inquisition is, in all likelihood, going to take their lives. There will probably never be any children for them, no sturdy stone fence, no big feather bed with the smell of fresh bread in the morning.

Cullen leads her to the spot where he wants to lay the first timber, pulls her down with him into the grass. He kisses her for a while, the sunlight passing warm along her back. Then they lie still and stare up into the blue, blue sky, imagining shapes in the clouds.

“That dream of yours,” she says to him after a while, “the one you use against the bad ones. Was I ever in it?”

Cullen turns his head to look at her, the corners of his lips crooking up in a smile. His hand finds hers, their fingers intertwining among the blades of grass. Aeveth brushes her thumb against one of his fingers, in the place where a ring would be.

“You are now,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.


End file.
